The Night of Unexpected Expectations
by Gunney
Summary: The third in a three story arch that includes The Creely Cloud and The King of Cannibals. Arte and Jim struggle to find a solution to the Squirt problem.
1. Chapter 1

_Denver, Colorado _

_August 1874_

_Home of Walter and Winifred Tennyson_

Winifred Wilson Tennyson, 28 years of age, dark brown eyes, light brown curling hair, and precisely 4 and 1/2 feet tall answered the knock on the door to her home in Denver City, Colorado Territory two months, and two days before she gave birth to her first child.

While most of her friends would have told her that a woman of her size, and in her condition, should not be answering the door, let alone on her own feet at such a stage, Winifred had come from heartier stock. She knew that her own mother had been traversing the wilds of this great nation between Illinois and Iowa while pregnant with her fourth child, Wini, and caring for her older brother and sisters.

From birth Winifred had moved five times, crossing the hundreds of miles by foot and wagon train. A simple thing like pregnancy could hardly keep her off her feet. With her husband away at work, and no servants in the household to speak of, she could not ignore the door. While she would never open her home to visitors without her husband's presence, she had been informed by Walter of the impending visit of two men.

"The younger of these gentlemen may strike you as dashing, debonair and at times most serious. That would be Captain James T. West, one of the best of the government's men. The older gentleman is a scholar, a Shakespearean actor, and a most talented rogue, given to great disguises of the face and voice. This would be Artemus Gordon, the fellow that visited me so recently at the First National." Her husband had told her almost a week before.

What had followed had been a night of excitement. Winifred digging deeper and deeper into the past of her husband of one and a half years, and thrilling at the tales of his unusual involvement with the two men of action.

Prior to the knock at her door she had been in the process of finishing a letter to her parents, detailing more of the exploits that she had weaned out of her husband only a night before.

When the knock came she felt once girlish cheeks flush in a way that only her husband's return could usually cause. Surprised she glanced to her reflection in the mirror opposite her writing desk. While her appearance was acceptable, and most appropriate for a woman receiving visitors, she was very clearly with child and, as all women do, began to notice the minor flaws in the few moments she had before greeting strangers. She had only the time to chide herself for her thoughts before she pushed herself to her feet and moved with weighty grace from her husband's study, down the hall and to the door.

Through the etched glass sidelights of the front door Wini caught glimpses of a gentleman almost six feet in height, a blur of brown and black, waiting patiently. She peered through the small peep-hole in the center of the door, discovering a most peculiarly handsome man who seemed to match her husband's description of Artemus Gordon exactly.

Clearing her throat, and taking a breath to comport herself, Winifred opened the door. Focused on something beyond the sizeable front lawn, Gordon turned at the sound of the door opening, his eyes going automatically to the crown of Winifred's head, about where her husband's eyes would have been had he answered. When the focus of his gaze dropped, Wini delighted in the look of pleasant surprise that overtook the man's face. It was a common reaction. She smiled, despite herself.

"Mr. Gordon I can only assume." She said politely.

The gentleman snatched at his hat, removing it quickly, before giving a slight bow that opened his coat to reveal a gold silk brocade vest. He put out his hand and Winifred allowed him to take hers, blushing yet again as her knuckles were brushed by his lips, before he straightened.

"You can only be Mrs. Winifred Tennyson." He said, a smile curling at the corner of his lips.

As she nodded to his assumption Gordon looked again to the street and Wini leaned beyond the door frame to look as well, finding a hack waiting near the gate that surrounded their property.

When Gordon looked back to her, Wini watched him fidget for a moment before he bowed slightly. "If you'll forgive me, Mrs. Tennyson. I'm certain that your husband had to have informed you of our impending visit, however, my partner and I have recently inherited a...small entourage. We would never wish to be a burden but we could hardly leave her on the train..."

"Her?"

"Uh yes...a young lady. Six years of age, no more. She isn't well. Not ill, you understand, but...if we could beg your indulgence...we...I..."

"Mr. Gordon-"

"Artemus, please."

"Artemus..." Wini said, feeling that flush yet again. "Our home is open to you, your partner, and to the young lady. I can hardly imagine that she's comfortable in that hack. Please..." She said softly, opening her household to the man with a simple sweep of her arm.

She received another slight bow, a broad smile and Gordon's thanks, before he moved from her doorstep, walking briskly down the gravelled path to the gate and the street. As she watched, the Secret Service Agent opened the door to the carriage and put out his arms, receiving a blanket wrapped bundle which he carried down the path leading to her front door. From the hack stepped a second gentleman, this one in blue. West, and yes, most dashing, she thought.

Gordon's partner paid the hack and took from it a small stack of boxes before following his partner up the walk to the porch. Both quietly entered and Wini directed them up the flight of stairs opposite the door, automatically conforming to the near silence both men had adopted in the presence of the sleeping child. She followed them, at a measured pace, up the stairs and guided them down the narrow hall to a guest bed room.

While Gordon laid the blanket covered girl on the bed, Wini opened the transom above the door, then moved to open the window in the small room. She caught only brief glimpses of the child. Jet black hair spilling here, a brown hand falling from the cover of the blanket there, a flash of fresh white bandages. She could feel her heart begin to race the more she saw of the young girl, terrified for her, and of her, in the same instant.

Gordon and West moved in almost effortless concert, situating the child on the bed, wrapping the blanket tightly around her and elevating her feet. When a whisper of sound came from the girl, both men were immediately attentive, speaking to the child in a calming manner until she was once again fast asleep.

Wini waited until all seemed to be settled, leading the men from the room before she invited them to refresh themselves in the washroom, informing them that she was going to prepare tea. To their protests she insisted, then ventured back down the stairs, lost in the brief images she'd gathered of the girl.

Men of action. Excitement following them at every turn, always expecting the unexpected. Yes, everything her husband had said about these men was absolutely true.

Winifred did her best to fight the smile coming to her lips as she moved into her kitchen and stoked the fire in the stove, putting the tea kettle on to boil.

* * *

"We aren't really sure what her name is. I started calling her Squirt and that seemed to stick. The Ute call her Wananika." Jim said, looking to Arte.

"That translates to 'little orphan.'" Arte said, his fingers resting against the delicately curved spine of the handle of his cup. "The Ute, like any other native tribe, treat orphans differently than we do. Since there is no 'state' to take charge of them, they become wanderers. If the orphan has anything physically wrong with them they become a pariah, and are ignored or shunned. An attractive orphan-"

"Like Squirt...is it?" Wini interrupted leaning into the conversation, enraptured by it.

Both men nodded.

"I was told by the local Sheriff that a man had come and collected her. No one disputed it because of how their culture works. He..." Jim closed his mouth, pressing his lips together while he considered the delicacy of their host. "...caused her to come to harm. I think she must have run away from this man, stolen aboard our train car somehow. She was hidden there when we went aboard."

"Was she not able to communicate what had happened to her?" Wini asked, looking between the two men before she took a sip from her all but ignored cup of tea.

"She speaks no English, and we speak no Ute, for the moment." Arte said, knowing that the situation would have to be remedied. "Our first goal upon arriving in Denver was to get her to a doctor. While I saw to her health, Jim did his best to see to her wardrobe needs. We both have a meeting to attend later today and couldn't leave Squirt aboard the train on her own...uh...we didn't want to impose..."

Winifred couldn't hide the hesitation on her face. Had they brought her a white child, that spoke English, she might have immediately accepted the task of caring for her. She had seen the native man of the American West on more than a few occasions but never in a friendly way. Sleeping or not she couldn't help but feel threatened by the child. The wash of protective emotions didn't make sense to her and she fought with herself quietly for a few moments before she made up her mind.

Clearly the gentlemen didn't have a choice, and wouldn't have imposed the presence of the young girl if there had been other options. Only for a few hours, she thought. In four hours Walter would be home anyway, there would be two of them to watch the child, not only one. Practice for motherhood, she told herself and nodded to the two men, offering them a brave smile.

"Of course, I would be delighted to look after her."

There was some relief on the men's faces, but the worry had not totally left them. For some reason Wini found this to be reassuring. Obviously they weren't looking for a place to permanently dump the child, only a haven in which she could be protected for a brief while.

"She should sleep, the entire time that we're gone. The doctor gave her a small bit of laudanum." Arte said, even as his partner was reaching into his breast pocket.

"If she does wake, just give her this..." Jim said, pulling a folded cloth from his pocket. It looked like nothing more than a wash rag, a smudged and dirty one at that.

All three looked at it, Wini searching the men's faces.

"Hopefully she'll recognize it, and understand that we haven't abandoned her here." Arte said, then tried a reassuring smile that didn't quite do its job.

Winifred stared at the cloth, then reached out a delicate hand and took it, resisting the urge to smell it, certain it wouldn't be pleasant. "Very well...would you gentlemen care for any more tea?"

Both men shook their heads, quiet communication traveling between them before Arte stood. "We should probably be going."

"We'll be no more than a few hours." Jim promised, standing as well. "Thank you for your hospitality, Ma'am."

"Winifred."

"Winifred." Jim echoed. Both men bowed slightly then left, showing themselves out.

Wini stared at the cloth in her hands, listening as the sounds of boots receded and the door closed gently. She looked at her abandoned tea service, aware of the presence above her, and the one in her belly. Both precious in their own way, but one more than the other to her.

"Expect the unexpected." She said softly, shaking her head. "You were never more right, dear Walter."

* * *

The meeting with the government representative was uneventful. The man himself did little to inspire confidence in the two Secret Service Agents. He was small, unassuming, and seemed terrified during most of the meeting. He took copious notes as if every word spoken by the two agents were pure gold. The majority of what West and Gordon said was pure fiction, the story that Arte had concocted on the train the night before. Their previous case had been exceptionally sensitive and only Jim and Arte knew the farce that this official debriefing was.

Regardless of their attempts at efficiency the little man kept them in his office for hours longer than the agents had expected. It was dark before they were dismissed. Leaving the government building that had once been a grand hotel both men were tired and hungry. It was late enough that most of the respectable houses around them were closed and shuttered for the night. A few restaurants, and of course the taverns, were still open, but seeing to the last of their customers before closing as well.

"You know, Arte, I never really expected this job to be glamorous. The train was a nice attraction, the girls.."

Arte nodded, making appreciative noises. "The fancy parties, the delegates."

Both men walked in silence, thinking before they said, "The girls..."

"But if that..." Jim threw his thumb over his shoulder. "Is the future of the Secret Service." He shook his head.

"What was his name? Malone?" Arte asked, turning to walk backwards for a few minutes. Most of the lights in the large government building were already extinguished, nothing but the office they had most recently occupied still showing signs of life.

"I hope to be long retired or dead before I ever have to deal with him again."

"Ah..he wasn't that bad Jim." Arte said, turning to scan the establishments on either side of the street. The hacks tended to group around restaurants still open, but there wasn't a cab to be seen for at least three blocks. "I suppose it's a nice enough night for a stroll."

They were quiet for a moment, the street seeming more and more eerie with just the two of them occupying it.

"Squirt will be awake by now." Jim said, voicing the worry that was plaguing both men.

"Giving that cloth to Winifred was inspired, I only hope she under-" Arte was cut off, and gave a grunt before he fell backward.

Thinking at first that his partner had to have tripped over something, Jim walked forward a few feet before he turned. He nearly took a blow from a sap full in the face, but threw his forearms up in time to stop the strike there. Immediately his right hand from the wrist up went numb, and he threw his left fist at his masked attacker, feeling the solid impact of the man's chin under the cloth hood he wore.

Jim caught a glimpse of two men dragging his partner away by his arms before another man stepped in. They were thugs, and they fought like thugs, the second assailant trying to get solid punches against Jim's face instead taking advantage of his access to the body. Jim dispatched him quickly, knocking the breath from him with a punch to the gut, then a solid uppercut to the chin, his right hand still useless. He ran after the two that had Arte, tackling one of them to the ground where they grappled in the dust of the street until they both heard the _click click_ of a gun being cocked.

Expecting to feel the cold steel of a gun barrel against his neck at any moment Jim was surprised to hear Arte's voice, woozy but mean. "You interrupted me, I don't appreciate it. Get up."

Jim kept his left hand on the arm of the man he had been tussling with as they both rose, only to find that Arte's gun had been pointed at the other man who had been dragging him away. Arte was upright, but clinging to a hitch railing with a white knuckled grip.

Jim had lost his sidearm but he popped his sleeve gun, holding it loosely in his hand and escorted the man he had been grappling with to the sidewalk.

One of the other two men still lay unconscious in the street. The fourth had disappeared.

"Arte, you alright?"

Gordon had a hand to the back of his head, and he was visibly dizzy, but after testing the size of the bump on his skull he nodded. Gritting his teeth he jabbed the end of his gun into the side of his prisoner and asked, "You mind telling me what it is about me that Denver doesn't like? I haven't yet entered this town without being attacked, hit or shot at."

The man remained silent, his hands carefully held at eye level. Arte reached out a hand and ripped the hood from his face. No more than twenty, thick black hair, and bearing a long Mediterranean nose, the young man had an attitude despite his helpless position.

"What's your name?" Jim asked, and got a cocky, close-mouthed smile for a his trouble.

Gritting his teeth again Arte jabbed the end of the gun into the man's back, hard. They waited until he straightened before repeating the question.

"Tony." The thug answered, hesitating before providing the second name. "Cossentino."

"Tony Cossentino..." Arte said, looking to his partner. "And I can assume that the rest of your friends here are fairly closely related to you?"

Some of the starch gone out of him, Cossentino nodded balefully. "My cousins." He said, his voice heavily accented.

"Which of your...cousins...ordered you to attack us, Tony?" Jim asked before he ripped the mask off the man he still held. He could have been Tony's twin, minus the attitude.

"We wasn't ordered...we just thought we would rob you guys." The explanation was weak, the delivery even weaker. Arte sneered and looked to Jim.

"We should just kill 'em now, leave the bodies here."

Tony's eyes flashed with fear, and Jim clamped his hands down tighter against his own charge when the man tried to jerk free. The feeling was returning to his right hand and he buried the muzzle of the derringer deeper in the man's back and nodded to Arte.

"Yeah, I'm tired of messin' around with these jerks. You first, or me, Arte?"

Artemus let his gun barrel tick back and forth, as if flipping an imaginary coin. "I went first the last time, go ahead my friend."

"Alright..." Jim said pointing the gun at the base of the young man's head. "Here?" He asked, then pointed it back to the center of his spine. "Or here? Some men have preferences, you see."

"They're gonna kill us, Tony." The man in Jim's clutches said.

"Shut up, Lou."

"Tony, he's gonna shoot me in the head. I don' wanna die here Tony."

"I said, shut up."

"I ain't been in confessional in t'ree weeks Tony, I can't die today!" Lou's voice was nearly squeaking as he begged, his body rigid with fear.

Jim and Arte shared a glance over the shoulder's of their would be attackers, before both men pointed their weapons at the street. They fired at the signal of a single nod, both their prisoners jumping and shrieking. Lou weaved on his feet and went to his knees before he realized he was still untouched.

"Now boys, that will certainly attract the attention of somebody. Maybe even an officer of the law, who will be very interested to find you and your cousin over there breaking into this house." Arte pointed behind him, Tony's head jerking back to look at the unassuming building. Even before he could respond a light was lit in an upstairs window. Arte bent and picked up the mask Tony had been wearing, forcing it back over the young man's head. "Don't they look like burglars, Jim?"

"We ain't, we ain't burglars." Lou insisted before his own mask was returned to his face.

"Sure you are.." Jim said. "You've got saps, you've got masks. What else would you be doing out at this time of night in that get-up?"

Lou started mumbling, in broken Latin. Arte recognized it a moment later as the sinner's prayer and smirked. "Who do you boys work for? Who ordered you to attack us?"

"He's nobody. Okay. He works for the banks that own the rail roads, that's all."

"A banker?"

Tony shook his head, Lou still mumbling. "He's from the East. Just moved in here. Gettin' a piece of the action, that's all."

Arte nodded grabbing a handful of the cloth of the hood and pulling it tight so that it constricted around the front of Tony's face and throat. "You tell him we're too hot to handle, Tony. Remind him of that, huh?"

"Yeah...yeah." Tony squeaked, clawing at his throat until Arte released him.

Jim did the same with his man and both cousins scrambled to collect their still unconscious comrade before they disappeared into the night.

Arte leaned back against the hitching post behind him and pressed his palm against his head, his brain still rioting painfully. Jim straightened his jacket and looked regretfully at a small tear in his sleeve before he walked to his partner.

"Too hot to handle?"

Arte winced, pulling his fingertips away from his skull, pleased to see no blood. He shrugged. "Sounded good at the time. Are you thinking, what I'm thinking?"

"Italian families with a strong history of criminal activity?" Jim asked. Both men nodded.

"We stay here we may find that missing connection in the cannibal case." Jim said.

"We stay here we may be dead, Jim."


	2. Chapter 2

It took them half an hour on foot to get from the government building to the street on which the Tennyson's lived. For a young city, Denver had sprawled quickly.

They had passed a handful of open businesses, store fronts with lights glowing in the back, and even houses with movement in the front windows, but had seen not a single cabby.

"Do they all vanish at night?" Arte asked loudly, the sore spot on his head a continuous annoyance now.

"I don't know, Arte, a town like this shuts down after dark. The horses have to sleep sometime." Jim responded.

"Ha! Give me a place like New Orleans, where the town comes to life at this hour. The cabby's go home at 8 am, not..." Arte dug his watch out his vest pocket and said, "11:45 pm."

"Your watch has stopped, it's midnight." Jim said, looking at his own timepiece.

"By rights we should be happily drunk by now, James." Arte said, re-winding and re-setting his pocket watch. "Heading back to the varnish car where confirmed bachelors can sleep off a night of brawling in peace. Not stomping through this nice neighborhood at 12 am to bother a man and his pregnant wife."

"We've got Squirt to think about..." Jim said, no more in love with the idea than Arte was.

They walked together for a moment in silence, both men stalling their thoughts as well as their footsteps.

"We can't keep her." Arte said, stopping at the corner of the white fence that surrounded their friend Tennyson's property.

"I know that." Jim said, facing his partner, crossing his arms over his chest. "But right now she needs us."

"Yeah.." Arte agreed, sighing. He looked up to the quiet house, all the lights extinguished. He hated the idea of waking them, and was thinking it might be better for he and his partner to return to the Denver Depot, spend the night aboard The Wanderer after all and return in the morning.

He was about to suggest the idea to Jim when his partner said, "That's odd."

Arte followed his gaze down and to the opposite side of the street where, of all things, a hack sat waiting, driver and all. The house it had parked in front of was dark and quiet, as were all the homes on the street.

"Odd but perhaps fortuitous." Arte offered, squinting at the dark curtains in the windows of the carriage, unable to see inside.

"No..." Jim said, shaking his head, as the cab began to roll towards them. "I don't think so Arte."

Before he could respond Arte felt the thin, cold metal of a garrote pull tight against his throat and managed only in the last second to get his hand up, shoving the appendage between the metal and his vulnerable airway. The weight of the body of the man attacking him came next, legs latching around his torso and squeezing even as the pressure against his wind pipe increased. Straining, choking on the pressure against his Adam's apple, and feeling his ribs start to creak painfully, Arte was forced to his knees.

Jim barely had time to shout in protest before a metal wire was dropped over his own head. The wire caught the brim of his hat first, saving his life and flipping his hat into the dirt. The few extra seconds allowed him to force his arm through the loop, pulling the garrote down under his arm pit. With his free arm he threw his elbow back into his assailant's face. The attacker's head bounced hard, his grip loosening as he sank to the ground. Jim clenched his fists and thrust his arms up over his head, preparing to bring a crashing blow down on the neck of the man clinging to Gordon, when he felt something hard and sharp impact his left shoulder.

Pain blossomed outward, immobilizing his left arm temporarily. Jim gritted his teeth, turning to meet the attack that was surely coming from behind and was nearly blinded by a bright beam of light that snapped on, directly in his eyes. When the attack did come he couldn't see it, but felt a rough, canvas covered foot swing against his brow, a kick in an oriental fighting style.

Jim desperately opened his ears, his head ringing, listening for the shift of his opponent's feet. West struck, his right hand finding nothing but air, then stepped forward and swung again. He heard a soft grunt of air to his left and ducked, driving a short punch forward with his right fist, finally landing a blow, somewhere in the soft midsection of his attacker.

Arte was blacking out. He hadn't managed a breath in a minute and a half, and while he could hold his breath for much longer, he usually wasn't expending stored oxygen struggling against a vice around his ribcage at the same time. He tried pulling his head forward as far as he could before slamming it back. The already bruised part of his skull popped against the forehead of the leech-like man, weakening his grip on the garrote but not on Gordon's ribcage.

Arte dragged in a little air, expanding his lungs as far as he could before he lurched to his feet. A darkened lamp post had been illuminated by the inexplicably bright spotlight that was blinding Jim, and Arte stumbled toward it, turning his back and ramming his opponent against the tall metal pole. Arte heard a satisfying crack, then a subdued groan, and felt the constricting force around his chest release.

Clutching at his ribs, Arte sucked in a breath, falling forward again to his knees and ripping the garrote from around his neck.

Through blurring vision and tearing eyes Arte could easily make out the back-lit outline of the man swinging karate blows at his partner. Crawling a few feet to his left Arte was able to slowly move out of the line of the beam of light, to see the source of it. The bedamned hack.

With a snarl on his face Gordon pulled his gun and aimed, taking the light out with a single shot and spooking the horses. The driver decided to take his cue and left, letting the animals have their head. Resisting the urge to shoot pointlessly at the fleeing carriage Arte turned back in time to watch his partner defeat the second attacker.

These men, like those from earlier in the evening, also wore hoods. But their whole bodies were covered in dark, loose cotton tunics and pants, allowing for the free movement and secrecy that would otherwise have made their attack successful.

Jim's head and eyes were still swimming. The light was gone and the man he had been fighting was out, but his senses were in full riot mode and he was too dizzy to tell up from down. He took one step back then tipped, landing on the seat of his pants in the dust.

Whatever was in the back of his left shoulder shifted in the fall and sparked new pain that had West clutching at his arm.

"Arte? You make it?" Jim gasped, trying to breath around the tight pain in his back.

"What did we do to _them_?" Arte asked, trading a question for a question before he crawled over to his partner and inspected the throwing star sticking out of his back. It hadn't gone deep but the curve of the blade meant that the wound would be bigger under the surface of the skin. Not deadly by any means, but annoying and painful.

"Hold on, Jim." Arte said before he yanked the blade free. Jim jolted, not expecting the move, biting back a handful of curses before he started to lean to the side. Arte propped his right shoulder against the uninjured side of Jim's back, forcing him back upright, the men sitting back to back in the middle of the street, while they recovered.

"What was that, Arte?" Jim asked after few minutes, dots still swimming in front of his eyes.

"The Oriental throwing star in your back...the carriage mounted spot light...or the black clad ninjas that tried to kill us?" Arte demanded, his voice rasping in response to the damage caused by the garrote.

"Yes." Jim said after a moment of thought.

"Bad luck." Arte responded bitterly.

Behind them a quiet voice called, "Mr. Gordon? Mr. West?"

Both Secret Service Agents paused for a second before Arte called, "Tennyson?" Getting their feet under them West and Gordon helped one another upright, brushing half-heartedly at the dust covering them.

Their diminutive former man-servant stood in the doorway of his home, dressed in his bed clothes and a smoking jacket, holding a lit candle out against the dark of the night.

"I heard the gunshots and simply knew you gentlemen were involved. Have you come out of it unscathed?"

Jim and Arte shared a look before they walked through the gate and into the man's yard, silently cataloguing their separate hurts as they trooped into the house. Tennyson followed, the candle held aloft.

Both men were surprised to see Squirt standing at the bottom of the stairs. Obviously she had been bathed sometime that evening, the bandages on her feet retied. Her hair was a long, raven shimmer tied back at the base of her neck with a ribbon. She wore a simple night gown that was a size too big for her, reminding Jim that he had forgotton to provide sleeping clothes for the girl.

Once she saw both men on their feet she left the foot of the stairs, walking carefully on the bandages, pressing herself between the two men, one arm wrapping around Arte's left leg, the other around Jim's right leg. She stayed that way for a moment before she looked up, muttered something in Ute which was apparently an admonition because it was followed by her pointing her fingers up at both men, then turned to the stairs and went back up them.

Arte, Jim and Walter Tennyson watched the young lady until she disappeared down the hall, stumped once again, into silence.

* * *

Jim's shoulder had been bandaged, the rest of him bruised but whole. Arte's ribs were aching, an angry line of raw flesh marked where the garrote had been against his throat, and his head hadn't yet stopped pounding, but he too would survive. They had spent an hour cleaning themselves up, downing a considerable amount of medicinal alcohol, and explaining what had happened, as best they could, to their beneficent host.

When Tennyson finally went to bed, Jim and Arte helped themselves to the unexpectedly comfortable furniture in the sitting room and were instantly asleep. Visions of Italian thugs and Japanese Yakuza battling in their heads.

When the sun finally rose that morning Jim and Arte had managed about four hours of sleep.

They were awakened around 9. Jim had fallen asleep on his right side, stretched out on the settee. Arte had taken a well stuffed, upholstered chair, propping his feet up on a plush, fringed footrest. Sometime that morning someone had thrown lap blankets over both of them.

"Mr. Gordon." The soft voice was heavenly. Gentle, kind, seeking to help in mere tone alone. Arte forced his eyes open, took in the delightfully glowing Mrs. Tennyson standing a few feet from the chair, then blinked as she stepped to the side. Dressed in a light yellow outfit that cinched high around the waist and fell nearly to her ankles, with her hair braided neatly down her back, and looking nothing at all like she had ever looked before, Squirt stood behind Winifred concentrating fully on the cup and saucer in her hands.

Arte's eyebrows disappeared under a tussle of sleep mussed hair and he croaked, "Squirt!"

The little girl approached, carefully and delicately placing the cup and saucer in Arte's outstretched hands as though it were dynamite about to explode. Only then did Arte notice the less than centimeter of coffee in the cup, the ring of coffee in the saucer and the trail of puddles of liquid leading from the kitchen.

Winifred saw them too but didn't react.

"Mr. Gordon that's the first cup and saucer that she hasn't dropped." She said, with a subdued sort of pride. "If you'd like your coffee, however, I would suggest that you take it in the dining room when you're ready."

Arte was surprised, pleased at the grace that the young woman showed, especially given that the unexpected child had probably broken the dishes she had dropped earlier in the morning. Squirt still stood before him, watching expectantly, leaning as she always did against his outstretched legs.

After a moment Arte understood and took a sip of the little remaining coffee in the cup, making a show of enjoying it. Squirt finally brightened at this and ran to the kitchen, nearly tripping on the length of her skirt. Only then did Arte notice that her feet were still only covered in the bandages.

Somehow that was reassuring.

Setting the cup and saucer on the table near his chair Gordon slowly moved his legs from the footrest, groaning. Everything seemed to hurt. Sitting up sent fire through his chest that surprised him with its ferocity but just as quickly died. He stood, and his head began to pound with the rush of blood, and he ground his eyes shut, clinging to the back of the chair until the dizziness passed.

He was beginning to really despise Denver.

"Jim..."

The couch shifted and there was a soft moan.

"Jim...wake up."

Another moan, this one with a little more protest.

"James, your protégé is playing waitress this morning and she's more likely, than not, to spill your morning coffee in your lap unless you get up."

There was silence, then the creak of the couch, before the back of Jim's head appeared above the walnut trim. Jim had gone to sleep without a shirt, the bandage covering his torso. Arte was pleased to see only a small amount of blood seepage.

"I thought I heard glass breaking..." The younger man mumbled before he clutched his injured arm tight to his torso and got slowly to his feet. The amount of groaning involved was no more or less than Gordon's. Jim turned after a few minutes and blinked at his partner.

"D'you get in a fight last night, Arte? You look like hell..."

"Ahh..wit." Arte said. "You must be one of them smart fellers..." He said slipping into an old codger voice, shaking his finger at Jim. "Best be watchin' what ya say. Oughta take you young fellers out into the street someday and shoot ya."

Arte went on mumbling as he made his way into the kitchen. Jim chuckled softly, finding his stained shirt and putting it on before he followed. The table had been set for the morning meal and to their surprise Walter Tennyson still sat at the head of the table, beside his bride, reading the morning's news.

As the two men appeared Walter moved to his feet, immediately lapsing into his old role as he pulled one of the chairs from the table.

Arte put a hand on the man's shoulder to stop him even as James moved to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Tennyson, this is your home, not the Wanderer." Arte said.

Giving the agent a confused look, Tennyson nodded and returned to his seat. Jim filled a fresh cup, and the cup that Arte had brought with him to the brim with the hot, earthy smelling brew. He set Gordon's cup down on the table then went to find Squirt who was squatting near one of the counters in the kitchen with a small broom and dustpan in her hands, sweeping up what had to the be the last of the glass shards that she had created. She seemed content and James stood watching her, sipping.

"My husband has told me a little of the unfortunate events of last night. I'm pleased that the two of you survived it so well."

Arte was slowly becoming aware of the awkwardness of the situation. Though Winifred especially was being more accepting and kind than anyone could have expected her to be, having the two injured and otherwise dangerous men in her home, along with a native child that was inherently clumsy, in her advanced condition was pushing the boundaries.

Their friendship with Tennyson may have run deep, but Winifred was a stranger to their world and ways. Especially after the events of the past month or so, Arte felt uniquely under-qualified in so domesticated a situation.

After taking a few gulps of his coffee, Artemus set the cup down and cleared his throat. "The both of you have been more than considerate of our circumstances, and we thank you. But I'm afraid we've out stayed our welcome."

Immediately Wini's gaze shifted, meeting her husband's. She seemed chagrined, and she reached out to touch Walter's arm. Arte noticed the silent communication and waited.

"It was...a bizarre evening, Mr. Gordon, certainly. And not something to which I am accustomed. But Walter and I both believe in you and Mr. West, and in what you regularly risk your lives for. I am sorry that our city has been so unkind to you."

"We attract this sort of attention far too often, Mrs. Tennyson." Jim said, still leaning against the counter, Squirt leaning with him, mimicking his stance.

"Our wisest recourse would be to return to the Wanderer today and leave town. It would seem that both the Oriental and Italian criminal influences in the city find us to be a threat to their business. Once word arises that our resolution to a previous case no longer threatens their interests we may avoid future attacks, but, we have no guarantee. And you don't deserve to be caught in the crossfire."

Each adult in the room nodded, understanding the hard, but wise, decisions that had to be made.

"Perhaps, in brighter days, you'll be good enough to visit us again." Winifred offered, looking to her husband who was already nodding.

The guiltless invitation seemed to lighten the mood and Jim and Arte soon sat down to a fulfilling repast, Squirt following their lead and eating quietly by Jim's side. On occasion she would make the attempt to use the cutlery on the table, but for the most part ate with her hands.

Winifred and Walter made no protest, their hostess especially content that no more of her flatware was likely to be broken.

Arte, Jim and Squirt left that afternoon, Walter offering to drive them back to the train station. When they arrived Jim and Arte thanked the man profusely and promised to send correspondence once Squirt's situation had been settled. Despite her knack for trouble, the child had charmed her way into their hearts. She would be missed, Walter promised.

With their injuries neither Jim nor Arte could carry Squirt, but she seemed content to walk, her feet protected by the bandages. They made a bizarre threesome but didn't notice. They were in fact oblivious entirely to the world around them, until they arrived at the siding designated for The Wanderer.

And found the track conspicuously empty.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Vocab word of the day:** Trucks_

_Definition: a group of two or more pairs of wheels in one frame, for supporting one end of a railroad car, locomotive, etc._

_Brought to you by: My Dad, the train expert._

_On with the show!_

* * *

"Jim..."

"...Arte?"

"Shouldn't there be a train here?"

Jim nodded, licking his lower lip before chewing on it. "Yep."

Both men looked down one end of the track, then up the other; finding no Number 3, no equine car, no varnish car, not even a lost engineer or stray fireman.

Arte turned to look at the busy station twenty feet behind them. A passenger train stood under the awning of the depot, maintaining a rolling boil of steam as its passengers embarked. There was a freight train further down the track in the other direction loading cattle into specially designed cars. At least one switcher sat waiting on yet another side track in case it was needed.

But The Wanderer was nowhere to be seen.

Squirt spoke in Ute between them, both her hands clutching the seams of Arte and Jim's pant legs. While he had no idea what she had said, Jim could only assume it had to do with the current problem and he agreed, "You said it, kid."

Arte looked down the line, past the freight train to a large, circular brickwork building, noticing a jean-clad worker seated on a set of boxcar trucks just outside the structure, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. "I'll be right back, Jim." He said then crossed two sets of tracks before he headed down the line that served as entry to the roundhouse. He couldn't see into the dim building but had a suspicion that their missing transportation was somewhere within.

"Pardon me, sir, but are you familiar with the train that was sitting there on that line?"

The man leaned to the side, as if Arte were blocking his view of the broad lines of track behind him. "That track?"

"Yes."

"The 4-0-4, coal burner?" The man asked.

Closer to the worker, Arte could see that he was older, and bigger, than he had looked at a distance, wrinkles blending into the deep sunburn on his face and neck, his hair not blonde as it had first looked, but bleached white.

"Yes..." Arte nodded, vaguely familiar with the designation. It had something to do with the numbers of wheels on the engine.

"Big, colorful loco, pullin' a hopper, varnish and equine car?"

"Yes!" Arte responded, pleased, seeing his smile reflected on the face of the worker, the pleasant smell of the pipe tobacco drifting on the breeze.

"S'gone."

Arte paused, dredging up a polite tone. "Yes, I was wondering if you would happen to know where it has gone to."

"Repairs."

"Repairs..."

"Had holes."

"Yes."

"Lots of 'em."

"Yes sir, I was aware of the holes. But you see that train is government property, and as it would happen, I...we..." He said gesturing to where Jim and Squirt stood, still rooted to the spot where they had stopped. "Are government agents. No repairs should be happening on that train without our approval."

Arte was observed for a moment before the worker stood to his full height, wherein Arte learned something else about the man. He had to be at least seven feet tall.

"Government, eh?" The man asked, sending a puff of smoke well over Arte's head without effort.

Arte considered the situation carefully before he straightened his jacket. He pulled hard enough to hear the start of a tiny tear in one of the shoulder seams. The article had seen far too many fights recently.

"Yes." Arte said, forcing confidence into his tone. "Acting as special attaché to the president of the Union Pacific Railroad. That train, that you've made off with, sir, is his personal transportation loaned to him by President Ulysses Grant, himself."

The statement received a mistrusting glare from the giant man, a few thoughtful puffs on his pipe, then a decisive nod.

"Be done in five days."

"Five-!" Arte nearly squeaked at the number, then dropped his tone following the man who was suddenly walking away from him, into the roundhouse. "Five days!? This is robbery, highway robbery!" Arte had lost track of which character he was portraying at the moment, his mind reeling at the idea of being stuck in deadly Denver longer than five hours, let alone five days.

As they entered the cool darkness of the brick building Arte's protests dwindled, his jaw dropping at the sight of the half-dismantled skeleton before him. The Wanderer was in pieces. From the cow catcher to the rear gate of the varnish car there wasn't a single piece of the train left whole. The boiler was hanging from the ceiling, suspended in heavy chains. The equine car had been gutted entirely and one side of the varnish car had been completely stripped of that which gave it its name, the grain bare for all to see.

"Where are the horses?"

"Stable."

"My...our personal property?"

"Stored." The man said, pointing to a small room thirty feet away, set against the side walls of the building.

"Arte?"

Jim had finally followed him, forced to awkwardly carry Squirt across the rough stones. Setting her down on the stone surface of the roundhouse floor, West took in the sight of the stripped cars, and the gutted engine.

Arte couldn't respond, his mouth still gaping. He threw his hand at the remains of their home and turned to walk away.

He had numbly worked his way back outside, sitting on the same trucks that the worker had been resting on, wishing for a pipe or a cigar, and not realizing the time that had passed until Jim walked up beside him leading both their horses. Without a word West slapped the reigns of Arte's horse onto his partner's shoulder, then continued to walk his own animal over the shifting ballast toward the station, Squirt seated happily in the saddle.

Arte blinked in surprise, glanced to his animal to find it saddled and ready, his full saddle bags and blanket roll, stocked and secured. His rifle sat in its boot, and the animal waited, impatiently shifting its feet on the uncomfortable rocks.

As Arte finally stood and followed, Squirt turned in the saddle to watch him. She spoke to West, her tone clearly concerned, the phrase ending on an upturn, marking it as a question.

"Ah, don't worry Squirt. He'll snap out of it..." Jim said over his shoulder. "...once he finds what you put in his saddlebags.

An hour later, as Jim and Squirt packed the last of their recently bought supplies in the new saddlebags on her very own horse, both heard Arte's surprised shout. Jumping nearly three feet away from his mount, Arte had thrown something furry and gray as far away from his saddlebags and his person as he could, and watched it where it lay limply on the ground, approaching cautiously before he recognized it. A gray haired wig he had worn recently.

As he bent to snatch it up he could hear Jim guffawing and Squirt giggling at his expense. "Oh, _Very _funny James." He shouted angrily, before he took care to straighten the article, replacing it in his bags. In a huff Arte stepped into the saddle and kicked his animal to a trot, muttering under his breath as he passed the two hecklers, leading the way out of town.

Four hours later they had stopped for the evening. Arte had kept to himself, finding every excuse to leave their campsite; to gather wood, to set up the latrine, to watch their back trail. When Arte finally returned to the fireside for the evening meal he sat on the opposite side of the fire, ignoring Jim and Squirt.

"Arte..." Jim said finally. "Squirt remembered the disguise, I think she thought you needed it."

"I don't wish to discuss it."

Squirt looked up at Jim, her mouth full of beans and biscuits. Speaking through the mouthful of food, she asked another question. Jim thought he'd recognized a word or two, more importantly he heard his partner's name amongst the jumble. Articulated with the same halting vowels that peppered her speech, but clearly a name.

"Arte?" Jim asked her, pointing at his partner.

Squirt nodded, looking to Artemus, then back to Jim. She said the name again, effortlessly. "A'art'e."

Jim's face broke into a broad grin and he tossed a stick onto the fire, casting embers in Gordon's direction.

"There ya go, sour puss. Her first English word. Ya gonna cheer up now?"

Jim didn't get a response for the rest of the evening but he noticed the gradual look of pride on Arte's face before he left the fire circle to stand a few hours of guard duty. By the time he came back Arte was asleep, Squirt curled against him, all, apparently, forgiven.

* * *

When the sun rose the following morning the temperature had dropped unusually low for Colorado in August. No more than fifty degrees, Arte judged as he walked through the gray dawn, leaving his position atop a rocky rise from which he and Jim had been standing guard. About 40 miles south of Denver in a meadow of spruce trees that gradually rose toward a craggy hilltop in the distance, their camp had proved expertly chosen and well hidden.

"Might not be a bad place to hole up for a while." Jim said over their breakfast, consisting of a quick reheating of last night's dinner and a boiled pot of coffee. Squirt had quickly turned her nose up at the beverage, preferring the water in her brand new canteen.

The meadows they inhabited provided sufficient grazing for their three animals. A half mile away there was a small stream trickling down from the hilltop that provided fresh water and an attraction to game. Squirt, by virtue of her nature, was accustomed to and comfortable in the environment, and neither of the men were strangers to long periods of time bivouacked in the wilds.

Arte considered it but was unable to ignore the one plaguing question. "To what end, Jim?"

Blue eyes rose to meet Arte's, and in that moment, watching his partner and the young girl seated so comfortably together, both seeming oblivious to the things that had been bothering Arte for most of the morning, Gordon felt suddenly old. Older even than the hills that surrounded them. He realized that he had finally put a name to the feeling that had been with him since they found Squirt in the varnish car outside Saguache, Colorado.

He had never considered himself the 'senior' agent in their duo. Nor was he necessarily always the voice of reason or at the lead of each case. His relationship with James West had been fairly equal, each man consistently showcasing his unique strengths, balancing one another out.

Now, despite the 20+ year gap between man and girl, he felt outdated by the younger two.

He sat morosely considering his beans, pushing them about the plate while he tried to remember if he had actually celebrated his last birthday, or allowed it to pass quietly, like a rich man passing a beggar on the street.

"You alright, Arte?"

Deeply focused brown eyes rose sluggishly to meet Jim's concerned look. Out of the blue Arte gave him a sad smile, and nodded his head before he dumped his beans back into the pot sitting by the fire. Arte set his plate by the ring of stones to be washed later and swiped his hands distractedly over his pants before he mumbled something about getting firewood, and disappeared into the stand of spruce.

Jim watched his partner withdraw, and took a deep breath, thinking for a moment.

"Go on with him, Squirt." He finally said, the young girl's name catching her attention. Once she was looking at him, he gestured to her, then to where Arte had disappeared to. The girl nodded her understanding then stood, setting her plate carefully on top of Gordon's before she picked her way across the ground. They had found and purchased a pair of moccasins for her while still in Denver, and Jim watched her to make certain they wouldn't trip her up.

Once she was ensconced in the trees, Jim stood, rolling his shoulder carefully against the pull of the bandages. He bent to his saddle bags and extracted a telescoping eye-glass, extending it and scanning the horizon.

He understood Arte's concern. They couldn't remain in the wilderness indefinitely. If the depot worker's estimate had been correct they could conceivably return to Denver in five days, reclaim The Wanderer and...and then what. Find a new siding to occupy while they continued to wonder what they were going to do with Squirt, and in the meantime..take on another case?

"To what end?" He repeated to himself, turning from the open, arid plain to scan the hilltop behind their camp. Deserted but for the natural animal life, the area was something of an oasis.

Colorado Territory was proving to be one of the more peculiar parts of the nation. Comprised of surprising and unexpected elevation changes, interspersed with desert plains and soaring mountains, the area would make an exceptional, if internally corrupt, state some day.

When Arte and Squirt returned with armloads of fire wood, Jim's partner seemed returned to normal. Walking about ten feet behind her, Arte bent every few minutes to pick up the sticks that the young Ute child lost out of her bundle. He seemed entertained by the game and arrived just behind the six-year-old. Laughing he told his partner, "She's lost more than she started with..."

Both men chuckled watching as the girl dumped her small collection, then trotted back toward the wooded patch.

"Want me to go?" Jim offered.

Arte waved him off, taking off after the girl.

Jim went to the horses, digging a coil of rope out of his saddle bags and worked for an hour, creating a rope corral that would allow the animals a little more freedom. Squirt's horse, unused to the other two animals, was skittish the moment he was released from the ground hitch and Jim moved with the animal, keeping hold of the bridle and talking constantly as he walked the young male in circles around the enclosure. Once the animal was accustomed to the bigger space, and the presence of the other two within that same space, Jim pulled the bridle off completely.

He removed the tack from the other two as well, manufacturing a quick saw-horse out of five branches, that would keep the leather off the ground and within easy reach.

When he returned to the fire he was surprised to see the flames reduced to cooling coals, and neither Arte nor Squirt in sight. The pile of firewood looked unchanged. He was turning to walk into the stand of spruce trees when he noticed a flicker of movement on the horizon, slowly developing into a small cloud of dust.

Feeling a jolt of alarm flash through his chest, Jim lunged for the eyeglass, wincing at the pull in his shoulder before he focused on the distant dust trail.

Gradually he could make out a carriage, a very familiar carriage, moving at a fair clip along the road that would pass parallel to their camp, 30 yards distant. Squinting at the vehicle as it drew ever closer, Jim considered the occupants. Their departure from Denver, so quickly on the heels of the Secret Service Agents et al, felt uncomfortably wrong. Jim had the feeling that Tennyson and his wife were either fleeing, or chasing, and if the latter were true, were probably searching for West and Gordon.

He would be searching for Arte himself before too long, but the carriage would pass their camp in less than ten minutes, and there wasn't time to hunt down his partner. There was hardly time to saddle a horse either, and after another moment of consideration West ran to the corral, whistled for his horse, and swung onto its back, using only a firm grip on the mane, before he took off for the road.

It didn't take long for Tennyson to spot him. Judging the spot where their two paths would cross Walter slowed the horses, feeling his wife relax a little beside him. Her current emotional crisis aside she had been grasping his arm every few minutes with a crushing grip, a silent protest to the speed he maintained with the horses. But, time had been of the essence.

"Tennyson!" Jim shouted, eying the couple, looking over Winifred, then Walter. They were uninjured, though Winifred had been, and was clearly now, upset. They both wore traveling clothes and there were cases and bundles in the back. Supplies and extra clothing and blankets.

Jim was alarmed that they were traveling in what amounted to a town-only vehicle, and further that they appeared prepared to go a long distance.

"What happened?" He asked finally, slowing his horse with his knees and a light tug on the animal's mane.

"There's...been a development, Mr. West. We hate to intrude but we've a very big favor to ask of you and your partner." Walter said, looking over his silent wife, before turning his concerned gaze back to the man atop the horse.

Jim could still feel the sick punch in his stomach that hit him when Walter Tennyson had said, 'your partner.' Arte was missing, Squirt was missing, the gap of time had been too long for their absence to be innocent. He had a feeling that was very infrequently proven wrong, but he would have to deal with it later. "We've got a camp this way. Take it slow, Walter, your horses are pretty well spent."

The Englishman nodded and got his animals going again, guiding them off the road and onto the rough terrain that forced a slower pace, reguardless. The carriage had rocked violently twice before Winifred spoke softly. Walter pulled the carriage to a stop and Jim dismounted, slapping the haunch of his animal to send it back to camp, before he moved to help Winifred to the ground. They walked together behind the carriage back to the fire, the story of their rapid departure from Denver slowly unwinding.


	4. Chapter 4

"My father is gone, Mr. West."

The admission came breathlessly from Winifred's lips, starting a fresh waterfall of tears over her cheeks. She was pale and shaking, not as a woman given to vapors, but as a human being experiencing the shock of loss.

Jim assumed that she meant that her father was dead, but didn't dare clarify. He kept silent, his arm under Wini's elbow, supporting and escorting her over the rough ground.

"The mail arrived this morning, unusually early. Walter has a friend at the post office who will forward personal correspondences to our home himself. He thought the news he was bringing would be pleasant." The way she spoke, Jim got the idea that the young Mrs. Tennyson had been more upset at the disappointment to the messenger, than her own sorrow.

Jim felt her footsteps slow, caught the struggle against emotional release that Winifred was quickly losing, then pulled the tiny woman into his arms as she wept, shuddering against him.

"He's gone." She wailed, her head buried against Jim's chest. "He's gone, and I wasn't there."

After arriving in the camp, Walter secured the carriage near the rope corral. He released his horses from their yoke but kept them harnessed, certain that they would be departing again soon and not wanting to waste time removing the horses' burdens, only to burden them again.

Grabbing his wife's discarded shawl from the carriage seat Tennyson hurried back to where she stood, leaning against Mr. West. His heart broke for his bride's anguish, his chest constricting with his concern for her health, and that of their first child. He had felt hopeless from the first moment that Winifred read the news hastily scribbled in the letter.

Now he felt more so.

As Walter ran back up to them, Jim guided the grieving woman into the Englishman's arms and returned to the campfire. Spreading a blanket over his own bedroll, then folding another against his saddle, West created a slightly more comfortable place for the pregnant woman to rest once she arrived in the camp.

He went to the campfire and opened the coffee pot, sniffed at what remained of the grounds and dumped them into the coals of the fire. Over the sizzle of the wet grounds he threw some kindling, then larger sticks, encouraging the warm embers into flame.

Where was Artemus? Jim emptied his canteen into the coffee pot, only filling the pot halfway. He went to Arte's bedroll throwing his blankets to the side until he found Gordon's canteen.

Where could he go without water, or his gun?

Jim tossed Arte's gunbelt against his saddle, shaking his head before he filled the rest of the pot and set it near the burgeoning flames.

A beautiful woman in tears wasn't normally a problem for West. A beautiful married woman, with her husband on hand, and a close friend of theirs to boot, that presented a scenario he very much wanted to avoid. He would have preferred Arte there. He would have preferred to avoid the slow, nagging worry tugging at the back of his mind as Walter and Winifred entered the campfire circle.

Jim showed them the place he had made for Wini, helping Walter get his very pregnant wife down to the ground without incident. Walter quietly placed his wife's shawl around her shoulders then sat next to her, whispering softly as the woman wept.

Jim was considering his options, knowing that he had to get water anyway and that it would offer a good excuse to leave his guests. He was about to pick up the canteens and make his exit when he saw yet another dust cloud on the horizon. But this one was coming from the west, just north of the copse of trees. A wagon, a covered wagon, with the canopy wobbling from side to side, drawn by oxen moving at a walking pace.

Not one wagon, but two, no, three, in a straight line, crossing the plains and heading straight for their camp and he could almost guarantee that the man in the front seat of the first wagon was Artemus Gordon.

"Mr. West?"

Jim looked to Tennyson, then found that he too was focused on the newest arrivals. West's horse was still free of the corral and Jim jogged over to it, leaping onto it bareback.

Just before he charged out of camp for the second time he paused, his mouth open, preparing to say something; but there was nothing he could think of to say that might possibly answer the questions Walter hadn't voiced.

Jim jerked his head in the direction of the approaching wagons as if to say, "I'll get right back to you on that." then pushed his knees into his mount's rib cage and was off again.

Ten feet in front of the wagons, where she had almost blended into the color of the landscape, Jim spotted Squirt, jogging ahead of the oxen in her yellow dress and bare feet. As he got closer he made out her small voice shouting something that sounded like "mu."

He caught a full phrase of Ute that started with "mu" and ended with "A'art'e", and fought his spirited animal to a shuddering halt a few feet from the six-year-old. She was grinning and pointing back to the wagons. Jim leaned down with his hand outstretched and she clung to his forearm until he had her seated on the animal's spine in front of him. They walked slowly towards the wagons as they too came to a halt.

Arte was laughing. "Jim!" He shouted slapping his leg in his exuberance. "You won't believe it. Not in a million years."

Jim fought the smile that was coming to his lips, trying to remember that he was mad at Arte for worrying him.

"Not in a _hundred _million years, Jim."

West looked over the other two wagons. Each one driven by a woman of acceptable, if hard-won beauty. Some of the women were bigger in stature and height than Arte was, he realized as more faces and bodies appeared, looking curiously out of the backs of the wagons.

"You'll never guess." Arte said, grinning like a fool.

Jim ground his teeth together, then turned his horse back around so that it was facing camp.

"Mail order brides, Arte?"

"N-...how'd..." Suddenly crestfallen Arte looked over his brilliant surprise with a saddened look of waste, then pursed his lips in disappointment and shook his head at Jim, as if by guessing right he had ruined everything.

"Arte, we already have company." Jim said, nodding toward the camp. As Arte squinted into the distance Jim walked his horse down the line of wagons, nodding to each face as he passed. Twelve women. Some of them looked distrustfully at him, some smiled and flirted, at least one laughed for reasons he couldn't understand.

He had completed his circuit and returned to Arte's side when his partner said, "Is that Tennyson?"

Jim nodded. "They just arrived in camp. Winifred's father passed away, and she's been...weeping."

Under the surprise and concern on Arte's face was the beginning of a knowing smile. He forced his lips over it, not wanting to enjoy Winifred's sorrow, but greatly enjoying his partner's discomfort.

"We'll set up the ladies' camp on this side of the trees." Arte offered, looking back along the line of canvas and wood.

Jim considered Arte's new harem, then looked back to the lonely man and wife around the fire.

"I dunno, Artemus. Let's see how it plays out. Bring 'em on into camp. And then _you_ are on water duty."

Jim grinned and rode away before Arte could get a full sentence of protest out of his mouth. Behind him he heard his partner whipping up the oxen, and the creak and rattle of the wagons.

Suddenly they had a full house, and for some reason that pleased Jim very much.

* * *

The camp of simple bedrolls and a rope corral expanded in a matter of hours into a small village. The three wagons formed a loose circle around the fire and the women, clearly accustomed to their life of travel had taken over in minutes.

A cast iron fire set had been erected over the flames and there was now a boiling pot of stew hanging over the heat, along with a two gallon coffee pot full of coffee, and a another two gallon pot full of hot water. Both had been carried half a mile to the stream, filled, and lugged back by a grumbling Artemus Gordon.

A small dutch oven sat next to the fire waiting for its turn over the coals and a table had been placed nearby where two women were elbow deep in flour and dough.

There was a constant hum of quiet conversation around the camp as the women worked, some preparing to take baskets of laundry up to the creek, others surrounding Winifred and taking over the duties of pampering from her husband.

Once they had discovered the pregnant woman in their midst they had shunned West's hastily prepared seating arrangement and had Jim and Arte pull a rocking chair from the back of one of the wagons. Wini had been given several pillows, a crocheted blanket, a cup of tea and a small stool on which to put her feet before Hazel, the owner of the rocking chair, stationed herself at Wini's side, listening intently to Mrs. Tennyson's every concern.

While Arte, Jim and Walter looked after the oxen, and Walter's horses, the women buzzed around the camp like worker bees in a hive. It all soon proved to be too much for Squirt and she snuck away, joining the men and 'helping' by petting the faces of the oxen while each one was tended.

"You know, its interesting that she chooses to be with us, instead of with them." Arte remarked, the hoof of one of Tennyson's horses captured between his knees as he dug hardened mud out from behind the animal's shoe. "I always figured they learned that flocking behavior from birth."

West looked over his shoulder at the camp full of women and had to admit they were intimidating. "We're familiar to her, Arte."

"I suppose, but she'll have to find out she's a woman someday." Arte said, letting the hoof drop and checking the animal's tendons for swelling before he straightened.

"Maybe she just doesn't like crowds." Jim said, winking at Squirt, who giggled from her seat atop the shoulders of one of the oxen. In the time that she had been gone she had managed to get dust-covered and smudged again, and Jim realized, had developed an odd bulge in the top of her dress. Frowning he pointed to the awkward lump and said, "What is that?"

Squirt looked down at herself, then grinned and reached into her collar pulling out the moccasins that she was no longer wearing. Jim snickered and lifted Squirt from her perch, setting her on the ground where she promptly plopped down in the dirt to put her shoes back on. Together they moved on to the next animal in their ever-widening corral.

"Has Walter mentioned why he and his wife tore out of Denver in a buggy so early in the morning?" Arte asked fixing a bag of feed over the ears of Tennyson's horse. Once the bag was secure Arte leaned against the animal to watch Walter on the other side of the corral busily checking over the wheels of his carriage.

Jim shrugged. "He said he had a favor to ask."

"Huh." Arte said, then smiled. "Jim, do you know where these ladies are headed?" He asked moving to the opposite side of the oxen that Jim was brushing down.

"California?"

Arte smirked and shook his head. "Utah."

Jim paused a moment, then smiled slowly. "Utah?"

Arte nodded. "Home of the Mormons, of beautiful sisters who don't mind marrying the same man. Wide open skies, the Great Salt Lake."

"You lost me at Lake, Arte."

"Aw, Jim."

"What are you proposing, Artemus? That we escort three wagons into territory we've never visited? What about Tennyson, what about Squirt?"

"Mr. West?"

Both men turned to find Walter standing with hat in hand directly behind the oxen they had been discoursing over. They noticed Tennyson's concerned glance towards the derriere of the animal then stepped away from it, Jim leading the way out of the corral.

"It was in fact the state of Utah that Winifred and I wished to discuss."

* * *

"My wife's family came from the east. Her father was born in Vermont, and moved to Ohio before he was 22. He married her mother there, then when he embraced the Gospel of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints he joined a wagon train of similar believers moving west. They were in fact chased out of Ohio by an angry mob. Winifred was born the fourth child of eight somewhere between Illinois and Utah territory, literally a child of the American plains."

"More mob violence?" Arte asked.

"She thinks so," Walter said, shrugging, the action distinctly Americanized and at odds with his still prominent English accent. "So much of the history of her family has been shunted to the side in favor of the happy times that followed once they settled in the Territory. They've been there ever since. Winifred left her home in Ogden, Utah at the age of 23. It is common for the youth of the Mormon church to go out as missionaries until the age of 25, to bring more new converts into the community. It was this mission trip that brought her to Denver."

"She hasn't returned home since then?"

Walter shook his head. "As my father-in-law George Wilson is an elder in the church he couldn't be gone from his duties for more than a day and her mother, Esther, has declared she will never again leave her home, not even for a fortnight. They've never ventured away from Ogden. Winifred and I had been discussing a trip after the baby is born..."

"But then you got the letter..." Arte said nodding, eyeing his partner.

Walter nodded. "I tried, Mr. West, to dissuade her from making a trip at so crucial a juncture. The letter was clear that her father had passed, and had been buried. Her mother even insisted that Winifred not try to make the trip down, but..."

"Walter...did you really intend to make it all the way to Utah, in that?" Jim asked, pointing at the delicate buggy parked under a tree.

"Oh...heavens, no." Walter said, chuckling at the idea. "I had hoped we would impose upon you gentleman and the hospitality of your train, but then was shocked to find it-" Walter trailed off, struggling to find a word to describe The Wanderer's condition.

Both Secret Service Agents nodded and waved him off, knowing full well.

"We're stuck ourselves until the train is fixed." Arte added.

"Which was precisely what I assumed. When I was told that you had bought supplies and another horse before heading out of town-"

"Told...told by whom?" Arte asked.

"A very tall gentleman.." Walter began standing on tiptoe and thrusting his hand high above his head.

"Jim, I never told that ape where we were going." Arte said, dropping his voice as he leaned toward his partner.

"Neither did I."

"It was bizarre enough that he hijacked the train only to tear it apart, do you think it was all intentional to get us out here?"

"That's a little paranoid, Arte."

Gordon leaned back, snapping his mouth shut as he regarded his partner. "Am I talking to the same man who was attacked twice in one night, by two different criminal organizations from completely disparate cultures?"

"Arte..."

"Who has a hole in his shoulder from an Oriental throwing star, and bruises from a sap-wielding Italian?"

"Arte."

"Did I neglect to tell you that I only had to spend a day in Denver digging up answers before the train was attacked by a convoy of armed men in buggies, little more than a week ago?"

"Arte...!" Jim lifted his fist, jabbing one finger in the air. "You've made your point."

Gordon took a deep breath, then nodded his head once, settling into the silence again before he noticed that Walter, Squirt, and every other woman in camp was staring at the three men who until then had been otherwise ignored.

Jim offered their new audience a smile, and Arte crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring them, until the buzz of conversation resumed.

"It's not a bad point either," Jim continued after a moment of thought, "It's probably best that we keep moving away from Denver City for the time being, and traveling with a wagon train will throw off anyone expecting to follow only three horses."

"But Mr. West, you said..."

"With the wagon's and the oxen we'll be moving at a slow enough pace that I think your buggy can stand up to. I'm sure the rest of the...uh...ladies wouldn't mind the escort."

"-and Jim and I have always wanted to see Utah." Arte interjected, both men smirking at each other, before they met Walter's confused gaze. The Englishman considered the agents for a moment before he quietly nodded.

"Very well, gentleman. Naturally I'm delighted. I'm certain Winifred will be most relieved."

"Will she be able to travel by morning?" Arte asked.

"She's hearty stock, men." Walter assured them exuberantly before he bowed, replaced his hat on his head, and negotiated his way into the circle of wagons and women.

In her usual place, smack in the middle between Gordon and West, Squirt looked up to Jim and quietly said, "Mu?"

"Oh, that's right." Arte said, snapping his fingers before he grinned at his partner. "You're mu."

"What?"

"Mu.." Arte said, pointing at Jim. "She kept saying the word over and over all morning, I finally figured out that it was you. Here."

Arte placed his hand on Squirt's dark-haired head and pointed to himself. Clearly accustomed to this new game Squirt grinned and said, "A'art'e."

Arte grinned and then poked the girl's shoulder. "Wananika." She said, then pursed her lips and said, "Skert."

"She hasn't quite got the hang of the 'qu' but she's getting there." Arte explained then pointed at his partner.

"Mu." Squirt responded excitedly, and together the two grinned at him.

Jim was fighting his own smile and he fixed a glare at his partner. "I suppose..."Jim" or "West" was just too much to handle..."

Arte shrugged, pleased as punch.

"Alright," Jim said. "So I'm Mu; What do you want kid?"

Squirt pointed in the direction that Walter had gone and said, "Saw-mee-get da-watch."

Jim looked up to Arte to see if he had any more insight before he considered the Englishman now kneeling before his wife to deliver the good news. They watched as she burst into happy tears, hugging and kissing her husband to the delighted clucking of the women around them.

Squirt giggled too, giving a satisfied sigh. Quietly she clasped her hands together and leaned against Jim's legs. Jim looked down, letting his hand rest against the top of her head. There was no doubt in his mind that Squirt was all woman.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning Arte, Jim, Walter and the eldest of the dozen mail-order brides, Iola, stood over a map of the Western territories. On it were drawn several cattle trails leading out of Denver like the spokes of a wheel. The mail-order brides, 'promised wives' as they preferred to call themselves, were all headed for Salt Lake City where they planned to meet their husbands. Ogden, Utah was no more than 30 miles north of that according to Winifred.

"Five hundred miles," Arte said, tossing the small stub of a pencil down. "Using the most direct trail possible and assuming we can travel eight hours each day, that's two and a half weeks to get from here to Ogden. Barring any major complications, weather, or illness of course." And that was only from one territory to the next.

It didn't account for the thousands of miles that the 'contracted wives' had already traveled.

Arte had never missed their train more in his life. At top speeds The Wanderer could cover the distance in a day. For that matter Arte couldn't understand why the women had chosen to travel with wagons and oxen when there were now rail lines criss-crossing the entire nation.

"You're sure the wagons can make it through that territory, Arte?"

"I'm not sure of anything, not even the authenticity of this map. No offense, Walter."

Tennyson, who had brought the map with him, gave a distracted nod to Arte, more concerned with the tone of frustration coming from Gordon.

Jim glanced around him at the uneasy looks the women were giving him and his partner every time they paused in their morning chores. He could feel the weight of the decision they were in the process of making, grown all the heavier because it accounted for the future of over a dozen women with everything to lose.

"Hey Arte..." He said, then gestured that they should create some distance between themselves and the crowd of concerned travelers.

They walked twenty paces away before Arte sighed softly, then put his hands in his pockets and said, "Alright, you're going to try and talk me into this. Go ahead, James."

Jim paused then said, "Actually I was thinking about talking you out of it."

"Excuse me?"

"You know Arte I've been thinkin'..." Arte gave Jim a tight-lipped smile but resisted making a comment. "The guys that attacked us in Denver may not have given up."

"Right..."

"If that giant at the train yards told Tennyson how to find us, he'd probably tell anybody, and all that those thugs would have to do to find us again is follow our trail."

"Right."

"Now if I were tracking us, I would find this grove, look at all the wagon tracks heading west, and assume that we had gone west too. Unless..."

"Ohhh no." Arte shook his head.

"_Somebody_ has to keep going South, Arte." Jim said, reasonably.

"No, no, James my boy. You can't convince me. Can't _hope_ to convince me to be the scape goat."

"Think of it Arte, no women constantly nagging." Jim offered, his voice becoming that peculiar kind of velvet that usually worked on just about anyone. "No kid to look after. Just a leisurely two or three-day ride south."

"Two or three days!?"

"Then you turn around, head back to Denver and The Wanderer's all yours."

"Five days, alone in the wilderness being chased by madmen. You're insane!"

"We don't actually know that they'll chase you." Jim protested.

"Then we shouldn't have to worry about them following us west, either."

"West? Who's talking about going West, Arte?"

"We are. With the women, and the wagons and the oxen, and that adorable little pipsqueak."

"I don't know, Arte. You sure?"

"Positive." Arte near shouted. "Send me south alone...Are you out of your ever lovin' mind, Jim?"

Grumbling, Arte stormed back to camp and Jim smiled to himself.

"Why do you think we get along, Artemus?" He asked quietly, then grinned as Arte announced that they would be moving out in an hour, Utah Territory bound.

* * *

It took Arte another hour on the trail before he realized what had happened.

"That...!" He shouted, a growl starting from the base of his soul, and bellowing out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Iola, who had been sitting next to him quietly humming hymns, jumped at Arte's voice, reminding the agent that he had company that wouldn't take kindly to the words he wanted to use.

"Double-crossing, low down, clay-brained, guts knotty-pated, son-of-a-mule!" Arte stood in the rocking driver's box and shouted as loudly as he could at the blue coated man riding three wagon lengths ahead of him. "Thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-catch." He finished, taking delight in rolling the final 'R'.

When he sat back down Iola's brown eyes were focused entirely on him, her thin pale face gone even more ashen under the shade of her bonnet.

"I don't believe it!" Arte continued. "I was outwitted. I was swindled, swoonhoggled. He _conned_ the conman." He squinted into the distance, the reins held loosely in his hands, the oxen needing little encouragement. "I suppose I should be proud. I taught him everything he knows."

"Who, Mr. Gordon?" Iola asked quietly. Her lips were tiny, bow-shaped, and entirely out of proportion to the size of her long jaw and narrow face. She was exceptionally tall for a woman, and thin as a rail.

"The young, _virile_ Mr. West up ahead there." Arte said, leaning back in the seat as the rest of his ire drained away.

"Ah..." Iola said, blinking as she sat back.

Arte waited for her to comment further, but she said nothing. For twenty minutes he stewed quietly reminding himself of all the good, sane reasons he'd had for not guiding a wagon train all the way to Utah. It didn't take long for that line of thinking to give him a headache and he finally looked over to the woman sitting stiffly next to him.

"Would you tell me something, Miss Benedict?"

The woman jumped, seeming unnecessarily nervous and Arte reminded himself not to yell when he was around her. "What possessed you ladies to come all this way by wagon train? There are rail lines all the way to Salt Lake City."

"Oh but, Mr. Gordon surely a ticket on board such a train would be terribly expensive."

"Less expensive than the money you had to have spent on these wagons, the oxen, and the supplies."

Iola's lips formed an 'o' and she sat in silence, her hands primly clasped in her lap, protected by gloves. Her arms covered entirely by the sleeves of her dull brown dress. Very little of her, in fact, was showing at all.

"Might I be so bold as to ask where it is you come from?" Arte asked a few minutes later, making a genuine effort to soften his tone.

"Philadelphia." Iola said, the word coming out of her mouth perfectly formed, like a vibrant lily in bloom.

"Ah..." Arte said, "And, in Philadelphia, what did you do?"

"Mm..what do you mean?" Iola asked, a guarded look entering her eyes. Every time she looked at him she turned her entire body in the wagon seat. Arte felt a little like she was restraining her movements intentionally.

He smiled while he reminded himself to be polite, slapping the reins over the oxen, getting them to move a little faster and build up speed for the slight incline ahead. "Did you work, go to school, attend a ladies tete?"

Iola blinked at him, the cupid's bow pursed open. "I went to church, Mr. Gordon." She said finally.

Arte couldn't help but stare and wonder how the conversation had gone so quickly, and so far, off the rails. He said, "Ah." quietly and nodded before he joined Iola in staring forward.

Nothing but the hind-end of the oxen stretching before him for the next three hours.

* * *

They stopped for lunch near a small creek that wriggled and wormed its way for about half a mile. It made no real headway in the sandy ground, but provided enough fresh water for the animals, the canteens and the afternoon meal.

While Arte and Walter tended to the oxen Jim unloaded the rocking chair so that Winifred could sit comfortably, then found himself running back and forth between the creek and the campfire getting water for the various tasks the ladies wanted to accomplish in the hour or so that they had been given to cook and rest.

By the time Arte was ground hitching the last of the oxen he heard a light flutter of laughter coming from near the creek. Jim's distinctive voice responded to the sound, and encouraged more, and Arte smirked, looking up to see which of the ladies Jim had captured.

He nearly spit when he saw Iola, covering her smiling mouth with one dainty, gloved hand. The other hand bare, the corresponding glove in Jim's grasp.

Walter Tennyson waited patiently through the string of angry gibberish, feeling suddenly very much at home as Gordon struggled to vent properly the frustration West usually caused. When Arte had exhausted himself, Walter said, "Quite, Sir. Quite." in complete sympathy before he returned to the fire circle and his wife.

Arte insisted on acting as scout for the rest of the day, traveling well ahead of the group astride his horse, leaving Jim to drive Iola's wagon. They camped that night outside Georgia Pass.

* * *

The next morning was bright and warm, and a Saturday. The men in the group had been informed that the 'future wives of Utah' were accustomed to resting on Sundays, and performing something of an impromptu church service.

Winifred became especially interested in the plan and was soon working with Iola and Hazel to plan the hymns they would sing, the Bible scriptures that would be read, and Winifred herself volunteered to give a brief sermon. While some of the ladies were uncomfortable with the idea of a woman doing any actual preaching, they admitted that the daughter of an Elder was far more qualified than any of the rest of the party, and no more protests were given.

The wagon train entered the pass around 8am that morning.

Arte was once again riding ahead on his horse, Squirt on her own mount, choosing to go with him. As Iola and Hazel wished to discuss the coming Sabbath on the driver's seat of her wagon, Jim found himself on foot for much of the morning. Since the wagons were heavily loaded with possessions and rickety on the rough trail most of the women chose to walk as well.

It wasn't long before Jim had company.

"You don't mind that I walk with you, do you Mr. West?" The young lady asking looked no older than 19. With dark brunette hair spilling out from under a bright, lacy bonnet and chocolate-brown eyes, over an upturned nose and full lips, she was perhaps the most attractive of the twelve women heading for Salt Lake City. She was also half a foot shorter than Jim which pleased him.

"I wouldn't mind at all, Miss..."

"Joanna Lillith." She said smiling.

"Miss...Lillith, it would be my pleasure." Most of the women wore traveling clothes, donning the same cotton skirts and blouses every morning. The blouses would be washed once a week but because the skirts were constantly dragged through the mud, dust and whatever else was on the ground, there was little point in washing them regularly. One didn't wear satins and laces on the trail.

Apparently Joanna had made an exception. That morning she had put on a light pink frock that cinched attractively around her waist, frilling from her shoulders and around the hem, and floating constantly on the breeze as they walked.

After a few moments of silence she said, "Um...do you like my dress, Mr. West?"

Jim walked sideways for a few minutes, taking the time to look over the gown that he had already examined at length. "It's quite lovely." He said.

"Thank you, I've been making it myself since I left Chicago. That's where I'm from, Chicago. Where are you from?"

"I've been to so many places, sometimes I can't remember." Jim said through a flirtatious grin.

"Oh." Joanna said, smiling before biting her lip and clearing her throat softly. Fidgeting under the attention. "Well, if you'd been to Chicago you would remember. It's a lovely town. Anyway, I decided that I should learn how to sew and make clothes, since I'm coming out here to the Wild West, and some of the other ladies helped me." Joanna snapped her mouth shut, her arms going behind her back as they walked.

Jim watched as her head bobbed in rhythm, furrowing his brow.

After about twenty nods she took in a breath. "I made it for a special occasion." She said, broad eyelashes standing out against her skin as she fixed Jim with a wide-eyed stare.

Jim smiled, stepped smoothly around a pile of fresh manure, and responded, "That's very nice."

Joanna said, "Thank you." demurely then went back to bobbing her head. This time her lips moved and James realized that she was counting. After she reached twenty she looked back to him expectantly and Jim smiled.

"Do you always wear that...short jacket, and those black um..."

"Chaps..." Jim supplied, watching happily as Joanna blushed prettily under her bonnet. "Only on...special occasions."

Jim counted in his head this time, watching her head bob. At twenty she said, "You're an excellent conversationalist. Did you know that my home burned down?"

"Uh...Chicago?"

"Yes!" Joanna responded exuberantly, as if Jim had just guessed the impossible, against all odds. "Well, not all of it. But the part that burned...my house was there. Burned to a right ol' crisp. Nobody really knows who started it. The fire I mean. I heard Lucy Dendell say it was some frowsy old cow. Of course I thought she meant Mrs. Henderson who lives down the street, but Lucy meant a real cow. I told her that that was silly of course. How could a cow light a match?"

Jim cleared his throat, finding that the best he could manage was a non-committal smile at that point.

"I wasn't in it." Joanna said, her lips perking at the corners, giving the wide-eyed stare again.

"You..."

"My house. When it burned. I was visiting my brother. He's a constable. He used to work for the railroad as a detective but then he was shot and the rail road fired him. Not because he was shot of course. They gave him a medal for that. But they found out afterward that my brother was robbing all the bank shipments. That's why he was shot. I don't think the Chicago constabulary knows about the robberies."

Jim took a breath, prepared to respond but didn't get the chance.

"I think it's just awful that you and your partner aren't married. I don't think it's healthy for a man to be single for too long. My sister-in-law, my brother's wife, says that a man gets itchy if he's single. Do you get itchy, Mr. West?"

Jim's eyes were wide, his mouth pressed firmly closed as he shook his head, turning to look behind him, hoping to see Arte.

"My sister-in-law says that my brother gets itchy. All the time. She was glad for the fire. She said it was better for my brother to have something to occupy his time and since their house didn't burn down, it was good that others did. He and his wife live close to the lake and there were men throwing water on all the houses by the lake, so it didn't burn."

"How fortunate." Jim said, stringing in the next sentence seamlessly. "Forgive me, Miss Lillith but I think my horse needs some exercise. Do you ride?"

To his relief the girl shook her head no.

"Ah." James said. "Then I guess I'll have to- If you'll excuse me." With a shrill whistle that caused the young lady to jolt Jim took off into a run, his horse coming up from behind at a canter. Jim caught the saddle horn with his hands, jammed his feet into the ground, and with the rebounding momentum swung up into the saddle taking off toward where Arte had last disappeared at a full gallop, leaving the girl in pink to walk through the falling dust alone.

* * *

That afternoon they stopped on the shores of a large lake. The lunch routine went on as usual. While Walter sat with his wife, assisting her in writing her sermon for tomorrow morning, Jim and Arte worked together to look after the horses and oxen.

"I...saw you talking with Ms. Lillith earlier." Arte tried, breaking into the brooding haze that had kept Jim silent since they had stopped for lunch.

From the other side of his horse Jim's head appeared as he straightened. West pushed his lips together considering for a moment before he shook his head and said, "No."

Arte blinked, drawing his head back before he ventured. "Well, you were walking with her. She put on that pink thing especially for you, did you not see her?"

Jim's head popped up again, a wry smile on his face, blue eyes glinting. "Oh, I saw her Arte." He said, joylessly, before bending to his work.

"Could you _hear_ her?"

"_Everybody_ heard her, Arte."

"Ah..." Arte said nodding, before he smirked and asked, "So do you?"

From where he was bent over seeing to a stone in his horse's shoe Jim asked, "Do I what?"

"Get itchy?"

A second later Arte took off running, laughing, with Jim hot on his heels.

* * *

That afternoon they covered a little over 17 miles. When they pulled off the trail they found a pleasant, cool, rushing river back in a copse of trees. Shallow, bubbling pleasantly over rocks and 20 feet across, the ladies declared it a perfect place to do some laundry before preparing supper.

While some of the women chatted excitedly over baskets of clothes and handfuls of soap, Jim and Arte were handed a length of line and instructed to tightly string it amongst the trees surrounding a ten foot stretch of natural beach. The line would mark a ladies only area for the first half an hour during which time the women intended to bathe.

The minute the lines were up they were draped with blankets and towels, creating a blind that shielded them from view.

At first West, Gordon and Tennyson found ways to occupy themselves, gathering wood, building a fire, tending to the animals and so forth. Squirt did not join them, instead standing at the very edge of the 'ladies only' line watching as the elders of her gender cavorted in the water.

When she finally ventured behind the line of blankets Arte gave Jim a look, pleased that Squirt was making an effort to, as he saw it, feminize. Making a pot of coffee with what little water remained in their canteens the men settled down to a quiet cup, listening to the sounds of the ladies and trading stories.

A shrill scream that chilled them to the very bone broke through their idle chatter, and all three men scrambled to their feet, tossing their cups to the side and groping for their guns.

From the behind the curtain of blankets they heard a sputtering female voice shout with venomous fury, "You...little...BRAT!"

A second later the bottom of one of the blankets bulged, then flew into the air, a three-foot, four-inch, bulbous yellow and pink bundle popping out. Almost completely swallowed in the dress, the front of it gathered in a poof that drooped from her arms like rising bread dough, Squirt streaked across the ground, a train of pink trailing behind her, shrieking and giggling like mad.

Guns drawn the two secret service agents stared dumbfounded at the Ute child as she disappeared into the trees, followed by an entirely nude, soaking wet Joanna.

In one move Jim, Arte and Walter turned around quickly. Walter seemed terrified, Arte was replaying the images in his mind trying to make sense of them.

Jim peeked over his shoulder at the gap in the privacy curtain, out of which a fully dressed Winifred peered, choking on laughter.

Jim looked at Arte, before both men collapsed to the ground laughing.

After staring in surprise at the juveniles rolling in the dust, Tennyson took a deep breath and gave a long-suffering sigh before he picked up a spare blanket and draped it over his forearm. With his nose aloft, Walter followed the naked woman at a respectful distance, turning his head demurely when she finally noticed her revealing condition.

After she had wrapped herself in the blanket and collected what remained of her fancy gown, Joanna huffed angrily back to camp.

Tennyson found Squirt a few minutes later, halfway up a tree.

"Miss Wainanika...was that display absolutely necessary?" Tennyson called up.

"Ah-_kuss_-see-yaht-ka maw-match ni-guv nah-vah-mee-in." Squirt responded.

By the time Tennyson had worked out a translation, with Squirt pointing to things for each word, the laundry had been finished and the evening meal made and served.

Proudly the two returned to the camp hand in hand, before Squirt broke away, running to where Jim and Arte stood drinking the last of the coffee. The little girl grabbed one hand each and pulled, tugging on them until they stood before the beaming Englishman.

"I have learned a phrase." Tennyson announced, before he gestured for his former employers to step in closer. Walter looked to Squirt as he carefully worked his way through the vowel sounds and consonants, repeating the phrase she had spoken from her tree, before he beamed once more at West and Gordon.

Both men were rightfully impressed and congratulated the man before Jim asked, "So what does it mean?"

"I believe...'The pink lady makes my ears hurt.'"

Neither Jim, nor Arte, could stop giggling for the rest of the night.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Artemus found he couldn't sleep. His round of guard had begun at midnight and ended at five o'clock but he was still wide awake when the sun began to rise an hour later. In the quiet stillness of the camp he rousted flames out of the coals and made the coffee, before pouring himself a cup. Walking to the river's edge he had to navigate around the wet clothing hanging from the still erected line. He was surprised to find one of the 12 'probable brides' standing with her back to the camp.

Arte recognized her by sight. He remembered her as being quiet, hard-working and talented with her hands. Each of the ladies possessed delicately stitched kerchiefs, embroidered with their initials, that she had given as gifts at various points in their journey.

The young woman before him was five feet and two inches tall, with wide hips and broad shoulders, a round face and small, puffy hands that belied her abilities. She was perhaps the largest of the women, but so frequently tucked away quietly in a corner, focused intently on her creative endeavors, that most of the time she went unnoticed.

Arte was about to greet her and offer to get her a cup of coffee when he noticed her shoulders shaking. He heard the smallest of whispers of sound coming from the sobbing woman and frowned, his heart disturbed at seeing her sorrow. Quietly he left the sanctity of the small beach, leaving the young lady to her solitude.

* * *

When the rest of the camp began to stir there was a sense of solemn expectation that blanketed every task. Iola, especially, seemed to glow righteously as she hummed the tunes they had picked for the morning's service, impervious to the spray from the onions she was dicing and throwing into the morning's meal.

Winifred was nervous, constantly smoothing the cloth of the dress that she had washed the night before, pressing the folds flat against her rounded belly, while her child kicked comfortingly inside. Unfortunately for Walter she insisted on practicing her sermon over and over outside the camp, until he had heard it a dozen times and ordered Wini to eat, or he would forbid her from attending the service.

While the women sat down to the meal, chatting quietly, Arte, Jim and Walter saw to the animals. The morning promised to be pleasant and as the last of the dishes were cleaned and stored, the women arranged the blankets, chairs and boxes that usually took up the space in the wagons, in two crescent-shaped rows.

The laundry, still hanging on the line behind where Winifred would stand to deliver her message, acted as a sort of rear curtain to the miniature playing area. The symmetry of the whole procedure, and its resemblance to the stage, brought a sense of comfort to Artemus.

Jim decided that someone needed to be on guard duty throughout the day and had offered to take the first shift. Despite his disapproval, Squirt insisted on going with him.

"I'll be up on the ridge, Arte. Anything happens, I should be able to see or hear it." Jim reassured him before turning his horse and trotting up and away from the river.

Iola was the first to stand and began the morning's worship by requesting that the others join her in singing "Rock of Ages". She started the first verse with a thin and reedy voice that matched her personality and figure perfectly. Arte shook his head, smiling to himself, before he joined in on the second verse. By the third verse he heard something behind him that sent a chill down his spine. A most beautiful voice, perfectly in tune, singing with a knowledge of diaphragm control and phrasing that could only mean it had been trained at some time, drifted towards him from the back of one of the wagons.

He was about to turn and seek out the owner of the voice when Iola called his name. "Mr. Gordon. Would you be good enough to read our scripture for the morning?"

Torn, but not one to turn down the chance to orate, Arte reluctantly took the Bible from Iola's hands as he stepped to the center of the 'stage'.

The well used Bible had been opened to the book of Proverbs.

"31:30 please, Mr. Gordon."

Arte cleared his throat and read, "Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised."

Around him twelve female voices murmured devout agreement to the short statement, bowing their heads as Iola took the book from Arte's hands and nodded her thanks. She then began to pray, her voice carrying quietly over the group as the "thee"s, "thou"s and "therefore"s tumbled effortlessly from her lips.

Arte moved away from the 'stage', passing the two rows of penitent brides and peering quietly into the back of the first wagon. He was surprised to find it empty. He moved on to the next, accepting that it was possible that the voice had come from there, regardless of the distance, but it too was unoccupied. He was denying the possibility of the mysterious singer being in the third wagon when he heard his horse nicker in the corral.

As the sound of the ladies singing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" rose up, Arte watched as his animal's head bobbed then pulled away from the line that it was supposed to be tied to.

Breaking into a scrambling run, Arte reached the corral just as his horse left it. He could swear he recognized the broad shoulders and wide hips of the woman riding the animal that he had left saddled earlier, but not secured. He hadn't cinched the saddle tight, he was sure of it.

Not the rider that Jim was, Arte couldn't very well leap onto a saddle-less animal and ride off to the rescue. His next best recourse was to lead one of Tennyson's draft animals to the Englishman's carriage. Stepping up on the carriage, then onto the tall, broad back of the horse, he winced briefly at the discomfort then held on for dear life and kicked the beast's sides.

As the draft horse pounded up the ridge Arte could see his own horse, digging into the loose dirt. Their camp was down in a shallow river valley, the trail they had been following the day before, a long, wide flat stretch above the valley that wound its way eventually toward the mountains.

That was where she seemed to be headed, and once she had gained the ridge, miraculously remaining on the horse's back, the woman whose name he couldn't remember, kicked the animal into a gallop.

Gritting his teeth, knowing he would regret it, Arte shouted, "Hyah!" and forced the animal he was riding to a faster gait.

If only he could recall her name. It was something plain, and familiar. Something that he had thought he would easily remember when he first heard it. Why was it escaping him now!?

Ahead of him he saw the girl wobble in the saddle, her upper body jerking forward as she grabbed at the horse's mane for purchase. The animal responded, staggering a few steps before returning to the frenzied run, if anything even more frenzied than before.

The gradual decline to the right of the trail had begun to fall away, and as Arte nudged his animal closer to the edge he could see that it became a seventy-five degree drop further up, with nothing but scrub brush and gravel between level ground and the bottom of the gulch.

Arte dug in with his boots, jabbing his toes into the large animal's ribs, even as he heard rapid hoofbeats far behind him, and Jim calling his name. His mount responded, charging forward and quickly closing the gap between Gordon and the woman...Kate...Katherine? He thought that was her name. Heaven forgive him if he was wrong, he thought before he shouted. "Katherine, stop!"

The minute she heard her name the woman twisted in the saddle, and Arte knew immediately that it had been a mistake. The saddle slid, Kate's weight shifting suddenly to the side and off-setting the balance of the horse. The animal tilted the other way, it's hooves shooting out to the side, digging into the dirt, even as the insufficiently fastened underbelly strap came loose. The saddle and rider flew to the right, over the lip of the gorge, the horse managing to stay upright and charging away from the rim once it was free of its unstable burden.

Before the saddle left the animal's back Arte was swinging his leg up and over the draft horse's neck and launching himself toward the ground. He hit hard, knee first, choked back a cry as pain shot through his leg, then rolled, scrambling to the edge of the gorge and catching one of the stirrups of the loose saddle before it all disappeared over the side.

He had ground to a stop, building up a bank of dirt and gravel in front of his sliding chest, certain he had lost Katherine until he felt the saddle jerk forward a second later. His shoulder made a popping sound as the leather and steel stirrup was nearly yanked from his hand, then he was sliding again toward the edge.

A moment later hands clamped powerfully around his left ankle, and he heard the air leave Jim's lungs as he grunted, finally bringing the deadly parade to a halt.

For a few agonizing moments Arte saw a dozen scenarios flash through his mind. The first involved his arm being ripped from its socket, the second his leg flying off. The third, he could see the stirrup slipping from his grasp and hear Katherine's terrified scream as she fell. The rest were blurred into a general theme of bad as he reached his free hand above his head, gritting his teeth as he strengthened his grip on the stirrup by clamping his left hand on top of his right.

"Hang on, Katherine." He grunted before he tried to crane his neck to see over his shoulder.

He could hear Jim's labored breathing behind him, a foot dragging through the dirt, then something bumping against his leg as the tension on the appendage increased. A few seconds later and Arte was moving, backward thankfully. The movement only lasted a few seconds, coming to a stop with a dying grunt from Jim, and several desperate gasps for air before the tension returned. Arte barely moved back at all the second time and Jim was breathing harder than before.

"Arte..." He huffed. "I'm not gonna be able to pull the both of you...and that saddle...up on my own."

Gordon felt the grip on his ankle shift, Jim getting a better hold on him.

"Katherine, can you hear me?"

After a moment a humiliated voice from below quaked, "Yes, Mr. Gordon."

"Good girl, now...my dear, I need you to climb...up the saddle."

There was silence, then a gripping sob from below. "Please Mr. Gordon..." She begged. "Just let go."

Arte remembered watching Katherine sobbing on the small beach, remembered the untold beauty in her voice and felt as though he were watching a magnificent creation be desecrated. It threatened to defeat him, tugged at the saddle, teasing his weakening fingers, and made him very, very angry.

"Katherine..." He said, wincing at the throbbing in his shoulder and knee, already feeling Jim's grip on his ankle slipping a little. "I will go flying down that hill with you a hundred times before I let go. And if I go, so will Mr. West. You _must _climb."

"You shouldn't have chased me. It would have been better that way. You should have let me go."

Had Katherine been hysterical, speaking the words with dramatic wails, Arte would have completely ignored them. But the girl had spoken each phrase matter of factly, as if it were undeniably true.

He could feel something preparing to snap in his shoulder, the ground still shifting underneath him centimeter by centimeter. It occurred to him that if Katherine could have let go of the saddle she would have done so already. It was likely that she was tangled in the loose straps, which might make climbing up the saddle a pointless exercise. "That may be true, but that is a personal failing I would love to discuss with you another time."

The snap finally came, a tiny pop that shot cold, numbing pain all the way down to his fingers. Were it not for the presence of his other hand on the stirrup he would have lost the saddle then and there. "Please climb..." He begged her, laying his forehead against the dirt.

"Arte..!"

Gordon could hear the panic in his partner's voice a second before they started to slide another few inches.

Then Arte heard a song. The tune was very familiar, but the words were alien. He lifted his head high enough to see Squirt standing at the edge of the precipice to his right, singing. She had to have learned the song from a missionary, he realized, and a second later he fully recognized the tune as Katherine's quaking voice softly recited the lyrics from below.

"Jesus loves me, this I know..." Arte heard whispered, then there was a grunt and powerful tug on the saddle.

"For the Bible tells me so..." The phrase was a little stronger, tuneless but delivered with more conviction as a small hand appeared on the pommel.

Even as she continued to sing Squirt leapt over Arte's prone body and planted her feet in the gravel, squatting down and reaching out her hands.

Arte was starting to slide again and he dug his elbows into the dirt, even as he felt Jim shift, letting go of Arte's ankle with one hand.

"Little ones to him belong..."

Arte could see Jim reaching out his free hand and capturing the back of Squirt's dress as Katherine's face popped up over the edge of the gorge. Kate's right hand reached out for Squirt and Arte could see that her left wrist was entirely tangled in the other stirrup, misshapen and swollen.

Squirt was still singing the tune, clasping Katherine's right hand tightly, pulling back even as Jim was pulling back. Kate swung a leg up over the edge as she strongly quoted the words, "They are weak..." Together she, Squirt and Jim collapsed backward, all the tension leaving Arte's frame as Kate and the saddle were finally dragged onto solid ground.

Gasping, his breaths blasting into the soil that in turn flew up and coated his sweating face, Arte rolled carefully onto his back and whispered, "But He is strong."

* * *

The wagontrain camp had been, at first, in something of an uproar. Winifred was the first to notice Arte running across the camp to the horses, Walter the one to watch Gordon mount the draft animal and take off. Afraid that they were under attack by wild Indians Walter had run to his saddle bags to retrieve the small pistol that he kept with him for defense. It wouldn't be much, but he was ready to protect the women at all costs.

A moment later one of the women shrieked that Katherine was missing. While they frantically searched the camp and the river, Walter climbed to the top of the hill in time to see Jim and Squirt taking off on their separate animals at a full gallop.

Unable to find Kate, or do anything about her disappearance Iola quieted the women and gathered them back together suggesting that they join hands and pray. While some of the women were suddenly resistant to it, Winifred's quiet insistence eventually drew them together. While his wife led the women in furtive entreaties to the heavens, Walter watched the road, not sure if he was to expect Indians, bandits or the U.S. Cavalry, but knowing that West and Gordon had taken off for a reason.

For what seemed like an hour, but was likely only twenty minutes, Walter waited, switching his gun from his left hand to his right, wiping sweat on his pants and trying to remember which was his dominant hand. It had been far too long since he had last fired the pistol. Below him the women continued to pray, each gradually speaking on the behalf of their guides and their missing sister.

When the familiar black horse finally appeared on the distant trail, dancing in the waves of heat from the sun, Walter wanted to whoop for joy, but sadly didn't know how. He took off running, counting horses as he did.

The black was the first in the line, bearing not James West, but Artemus Gordon. His arm had been pulled from the sleeve of his jacket and was tied tightly against his chest, his clothing covered in dust and torn across the knees. Gordon sat stiffly in the saddle, concentrating on keeping the horse at a slow walk.

Behind him was Squirt's animal, moving at the same pace. Aboard the young stud was Katherine, her back perfectly straight, her arm also in a sling, a bruise forming above her left cheekbone. Her clothing too had been torn and there were scratches along her arms.

Jim took up the rear, riding the draft horse bareback with Squirt behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. Arte's horse followed, limping slightly, with Arte's saddle loosely strapped to its back.

Straightening his jacket Walter came to attention, his feet squaring together, holding the gun as he would a magnum of champagne. Slipping into the stance that had always been the most familiar to him.

As Arte turned to start his horse down the incline he said softly, "Walter, you're a good man."

Katherine was the next to turn down the hill and she kept her eyes forward, concentrating on staying perfectly centered in the saddle.

Jim paused at the top of the hill watching as the first two horses made it safely to the campground before he slid awkwardly from the back of the draft horse, putting his arms up for Squirt. He slapped the rump of the large animal once it was unburdened, watching as it made its own way back to the camp and the corral, before collecting the reins of Arte's horse.

"Tennyson..." He said greeting the Englishman with a hand shake.

"Mr. West...what?"

James shook his head, and took a breath. "It's a long story Walter...and I think we'll wait until Katherine is ready to tell it." Jim looked at the gun held so elegantly in Walter's arms, clapped the man on the back and said, "Glad you were here, though."

Together the two men walked Arte's horse down the incline, Squirt running ahead, going straight for the fire.

Already the women had broken from their prayer circle, some crying out at the terrible state Katherine was in. Joanna and Winifred had followed her to the corral, helping her dismount before they walked her to the rocking chair.

The second oldest "betrothed bride" was also the second biggest. Mannish looking with shocking blonde hair and powerful forearms, Gerte had long been proving herself talented in the ways of medicine and upon seeing the wounded party returning, had run to the wagon she shared to gather her box of medicines and tools. She was waiting near the rocking chair, cooing sympathetically to Katherine as the women approached.

By the time Jim got to the corral Arte was still sitting his horse.

"Arte?"

"Yeah, Jim."

"Stuck?"

Arte reluctantly admitted, "A little...", shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, "...but I'll get it."

"Ah," Jim said, then joined his partner in watching the ant hill of activity surrounding Katherine. "Do you think she'll be alright?"

"She made a choice to live today...that has to count for something."

"Why would she want to die?" Jim asked.

"Oh...I have an idea. It could be she just wanted to feel loved."

Both men looked to Squirt then, the girl lugging back the full pot of water that she had taken it upon herself to fill at the edge of the river. She couldn't lift it high enough to put it over the flames of the fire but Walter stepped in a second later and together they put it on the s-hook, then slid it over the heat.

"You ever notice how quickly she learns?" Arte asked. "Sometimes I get the idea she's smarter than all of us put together."

"Come on, Arte. Lets get you down and looked at."

"Oh, no. Jim...I'd rather never walk again than be trussed up and stuck in that hen-house."

"Arte...you can't move your arm, and your knee is twice the normal size. Quit being a baby and get off that horse."

Arte considered his partner then said, "Bend over."

Jim laughed and said, "What?"

"Bend over." Arte challenged again, lifting his eyebrows as he enunciated each word.

After a moment Jim reluctantly said, "No." As if admitting to something.

Arte laughed. "Your back is out."

"It's...just a little sore...not _out_." Jim said, playing with a loose thread on the saddle Arte still hadn't left.

"Liar."

Before he could say anything else Squirt came running towards them, bouncing in her exuberant way. She ducked carefully under the line to which the horses were tied and asked, "A'art'e?" Looking up at the man still on the horse.

Jim smirked up at his partner and said, "You've been found out..." before he bent to pick up the six-year-old. Even before he reached her he felt his back stiffen, the muscles freezing painfully. Squirt didn't catch the look of agony on his face but Arte did, and started to laugh as he worked out just how he was going to get off the horse with a stiffened and swollen knee and one hand strapped to his chest.

The final solution was far from graceful, and painful, but successful.

Carefully skirting the flourish of activity, Arte, leaning on Jim for support, managed to get to the edge of the river, behind the shield of still drying laundry, unnoticed. Squirt 'helped' by carrying Jim and Arte's heavy gun belts, crossed over her chest like bandoliers.

After getting his boot off and considering his torn pant leg, Arte found a place to sit where he could lower his throbbing knee into the cold mountain stream. The relief hit him like a wave about the same time that Jim managed to sit down, both men letting out pain filled sighs. Jim lay against the flat rocks that bordered the stream, lifting his knees up so that the pressure was taken off the damaged muscles in his back, and Arte reclined on his left elbow, glancing around to see where their miniature pistolero had gone to.

After a few minutes she appeared, running with a blanket in her arms which she carefully stuffed under Jim's head, before she ran off again. Arte's knee was slowly going wonderfully numb, and his shoulder had settled into an almost painless thrumming by the time Squirt returned with a second blanket and a canteen.

There was no where for her to stuff the blanket that she had brought for Arte so she laid it down on the ground and sat on it, crossing her legs and carefully spreading her skirts around her.

They lay in silence, licking their wounds privately as men will do, Squirt on occasion running the canteen she had brought between the two men.

The buzz of excitement coming from the ladies in camp eventually died and after some time, Arte assumed that most of the women had decided on napping for the afternoon. He was surprised when he heard Winifred's voice on the other side of the curtain starting to speak.

"I'm grateful that you've allowed me to speak this afternoon. Especially given the excitement of the morning. After Gerte was good enough to see to Katherine's injuries I took her back to the wagon and we spoke for a few minutes before Katherine went to sleep. What she said, she told me in confidence, but it encouraged me to bring this morning's message to you, regardless of the circumstances.

This morning Mr. Gordon was good enough to read to us from the book of Proverbs, a verse about the true virtue of a woman."

The women in attendance began to murmur their agreement.

"Living in a large city like Denver I've encountered many different kind of women." Winifred continued, her voice colorful but direct. "Some were very plain of face, and good of heart. Some were very beautiful in appearance, but had vile and hateful spirits. There have been some whose outward beauty mirrored their goodness and kind tongues, and others who were no more attractive on the inside as they were on the outside.

We are told by the good book that to seek riches and beauty and fame is folly. That seeking the will of God is the true calling of all His creation, man and woman. Yesterday, I suppose we were given a good example of the folly of seeking beauty."

There was quiet agreement, some of the women chuckling good-naturedly.

"It is important that we, as women, as wives, and as future mothers, seek daily the will of God, and cast aside the things of the world. However there is something else that we should be seeking, as sisters in Christ."

Winifred was quiet for a moment and Arte sat up, glancing over to see Jim and Squirt equally as raptured by the voice on the other side of the curtain.

"We should seek out one another." Winifred said. "For there are glimmers of Christ's goodness in each one of us. Iola has shown us, often, her discerning nature and her passion for the Gospel. Gerte possesses the knowledge and ability to help heal. Katherine creates beautiful things that she gladly blesses us with. Joanna brightens our lives with her...unique innocence. Mr. Gordon and Mr. West especially have blessed us today by risking their lives to return our Katherine to us. Though I have come to be on this trail because of bad tidings, I have found myself endlessly rewarded by the friendships, laughter and fellowship we've shared.

If, when we part, we go into the rest of our lives seeking out these good things in every new relationship. Always finding opportunities to show love to one another. Then we shall be true virtuous women of God. Thank you."


	7. Chapter 7

The next day Katherine rode with Winifred in the Tennyson carriage. The wider wheel base and smoother gait of the horses provided an easier ride and allowed her time to talk to Wini, who was fast becoming her confidante. Mrs. Tennyson appeared to enjoy her company just as much, and they spent the first four hours of the morning chatting happily.

Arte insisted that his knee was much improved and after being forced to hand over his torn trousers to one of the other seamstresses in the train, he donned the only pants left to him, the burgundy colored pair, and mounted Squirt's horse for the morning's travel. His own animal, still limping slightly, would go riderless for the day.

Squirt was happy to ride with Arte and the older man put up with the small foot constantly banging into his swollen knee with stoic silence. After the first hour he taught Squirt about the joys of riding side-saddle. The novelty lasted almost two hours before she refused to sit that way any longer and went back to riding with her feet either side of the horse.

West, just as sore, kept to himself for most of the morning.

Before the wagon train left the river, Jim explained that he was going to check their back trail throughout the course of the morning and left it to Arte and Walter to get the group moving. Twenty minutes before noon he returned to the train, riding along the line of wagons before he pulled up next to his partner.

"Afternoon, Artemus."

"James!" Arte greeted exuberantly. "You know I was just thinking about what the world would be like without you."

West smirked in anticipation of where is partner was going. "And what did you think of it?"

"It was terrible. I had all the women to myself."

"You know what a selfless man I am, Arte, I would never leave you to such a terrible fate."

"You can't imagine my relief, sir."

Both men laughed before Jim nudged his horse a little forward to look at Squirt. At first all he could see was the one leg, hanging limp. As he moved forward he could see her leaning back into the crook of Arte's elbow, fast asleep.

"I take it things have been quiet." Jim said, lowering his voice.

The question forced the smile off Arte's face and he gave Jim a concerned look. "Were you expecting otherwise?"

Jim lifted himself off the saddle and winced, resettling against the leather as he scanned the horizon. "Arte I can't shake the feeling that we're being followed. I went almost 20 miles back this morning and found no sign of any wagons or horses but ours, but I still feel it. Like I felt that throwing star in Denver."

"Do you think it's the Italians or the Yakuza?"

Jim shook his head and shrugged, "I don't know. It could be a roving circus desperate for customers, but I can't shake the feeling."

Arte thought for a moment watching the trail ahead, as he had been all morning, for a likely spot where the wagons could stop for the afternoon.

"Should we keep going?" He asked.

Jim looked over his shoulder at the creaking, rocking train full of women, then shook his head. "No. Yesterday worried them enough for now. Stop for lunch, then get them moving. I'll rejoin you in a couple of hours."

"What good will going back there do?" Arte asked.

Jim was already slowing his horse, preparing to turn it around, and the animal danced at the uncomfortable move. Jim squinted into the distance and shook his head again. "Make me feel better, I guess."

"Alright. Be careful." Arte muttered as Jim backed his horse away. He wheeled the black and was gone, back down the line of wagons, waiting until he was engulfed by the cloud of dust that the vehicles raised before he left the trail.

Ten minutes later the wagons were circled 300 feet off the banks of the Blue River.

* * *

After the wagons were settled and the hunt for firewood had begun, Arte gathered the reins of his own horse, then rode Squirt's animal straight into the river. He walked the horses through the shallows, loosening the reins so that they could drink, before guiding them deeper into the heart of the riverbed. Once the cooling water had risen far enough to cover the swollen joints of his horse, Arte dismounted carefully, sinking into the same refreshing stream.

The water quickly soaked his pant legs, pulling powerfully at his calves. He walked deeper still into the current, keeping Squirt's horse with him for support, until his knee was below water level. In minutes the painful throbbing that had plagued him all morning began to subside.

He tried putting weight on his leg and felt it respond with shouted denial. His arm had been unbound all morning. But for some soreness it no longer concerned him.

Blocked from view by the bodies of the horses, Arte felt content to spend the whole hour that they would be stopped standing in the current, letting the ice-cold river do its work.

"Herr Gordon?"

Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, or lay down in the river so that he was invisible under the rapids...

"Herr Gordon, it is Gerte!?"

Would that it could have been anyone else, he pleaded silently before he sighed. Pressing his hands against the breast of Squirt's animal, he forced it back far enough to allow him to see the hirsute woman standing on the banks.

"Yes, Gerte. Can I help you?"

"The lunch will be ready soon..." She shouted, craning her neck to see Arte.

"Thank you, Gerte, Danke!" He offered politely, waiting for the woman to walk away.

When she didn't he sighed and shouted, "Perhaps you could see about getting me a cup of coffee, Gerte."

The woman seemed to like the idea and nodded brightly before returning to the campfire just coming to life.

"Oh, Jim, you're going to owe me for this..." He mumbled to himself, wishing he could sink up to his neck in the river and never have to get out again.

Ten minutes later he was putting his wet left boot into the stirrup, stepping up to mount and leave the river when Gerte returned unexpectedly. Her voice caused him to jolt, his wet foot slipping against the damp metal. His weight came down on his still sore shoulder and he dropped, plunging bodily into the river where he was swept under the feet of the horses, and an additional ten feet down stream, before he surfaced in shallower water.

Against his legs the water had felt heavenly, but soaking him from head to toe, the water was frigid and he was instantly shivering. Gerte was running towards him along the bank, her shouts drawing the attention of Walter who ran down to the river to retrieve the horses.

Arte managed to get to his feet, taking a few limping steps before his wounded leg encountered a thick layer of slick moss under the water's surface and he went down again. After surfacing the second time he crawled to the bank, coughing up river water as he sat up on a half-submerged, hat-shaped rock.

Caught between misery and embarrassment Arte sat wishing for New Orleans, shaking so hard that the water flew off of him. In minutes Gerte had reached him, still bearing the cup of coffee that she had been bringing to him when he fell the first time. On her heels was Katherine, hurrying as fast as her broken wrist would allow with a blanket in her hands.

With the steaming cup clutched in his palms, and the warm blanket over his shoulders, and Gerte and Katherine hovering over him, shooing away any other curious bystanders, Arte worked hard at putting himself into a positive state of mind. He reminded himself of the pleasant moments in the trip thus far, and of the relatively sound reasons they had had for leaving Denver, and The Wanderer behind.

As he watched his hat float by him, and head down river, Gerte asked, "Herr Gordon? What were you doing in the water?"

"F-fishing."

"With horses!?"

Arte sighed softly into his cup of coffee, promising himself that one way or another it would be over in 14 days.

* * *

Squirt was forced to ride with Wini and Katherine in the carriage when they got back on the trail and was none too pleased about it. The women had tried to cheer her up through the afternoon, Katherine finally singing to the young girl. Wini, delighted at how beautifully Kate sang, joined her in a perfect harmony that quickly lulled the Ute child back to sleep.

It was after six in the evening, the sun already in the process of setting against the tall mountains that surrounded them, when Jim returned. Arte, bringing up the rear, was practically asleep in the saddle, the blanket still wrapped around him. There hadn't been clothes to change into, or time to let his wet articles dry before they took to the trail. The sun had done its job for the most part, but as it began to drop, and the temperature with it, Arte had pulled off his still damp jacket, preferring the blanket instead.

"Hey Arte!"

Gordon lifted his head, forcing his eyes open, and taking a deep breath to wake himself, before he hunched again into the warmth of the blanket.

By the time Jim pulled up beside him, he was practically dozing again.

"Arte, wake up, you're supposed to be on guard here."

Balking at his partner's tone, Arte slurred, "What's the matter with _you_, Jim? Have a hard day?"

Jim bit back his immediate response, feeling the flash of anger born of a day full of frustrations and paranoia, riding for hours with spikes in his back and no form of relief. He had to remind himself that his partner probably hadn't had it any easier.

"Yeah, I guess we both have..." Jim said, his voice softening.

"Did you find anything?" Arte asked, straightening his back, rubbing sore eyes that had been open to the dust cast by three wagons for too long.

"Something, yeah." The admission had Arte perking up, looking a little more awake. "A small party of four."

"Renegades?"

"No. I got a look at one of them. They're dressed like Indians but they don't track or ride like them."

Arte shook his head, disgusted. "Amateurs."

"I could swear they've been tracking us since Denver."

"And with nothing but wagons full of women to stand in their way, what's stopping them?" Arte asked.

"Yeah."

"Maybe they're just supposed to track us."

Suddenly Arte pulled his animal to a complete halt. He looked over his shoulder, shivering as a breeze brushed past, burrowing deeper into the blanket.

"What is it, Artemus?"

"Let's pay them a visit."

"The Indians?"

"Or whoever they are, yeah."

Jim thought about it for a moment before he started to grin. "I like the way you think, Arte. Let's get this train settled first."

* * *

Three hours later Arte and Jim were close enough to the camp of the men that had been following them to smell the beans burning over their fire. Night had fallen, cold and unforgiving, and against all odds there was a storm brewing overhead as well.

On a ridge twenty feet above the camp West and Gordon had noticed the thin pillar of smoke rising where no smoke had reason to be.

"There's a deer trail down that way fifty yards." Jim said, remembering the spot from that morning.

"Okay..." Arte said, nodding, unable to stop the occasional chills taking over his body.

Jim watched his partner closely for a minute before he said, "How do you want to play this, Arte?"

Below them the men who dressed as natives during the day time had returned to their normal dress. It was too cold to run around in buckskin trousers, with nothing but beads and bones covering one's chest. Their conversation was muffled by the distance and the fauna that covered the ridge. The clouds rolling in over head, bringing with them thunder, lightning and rain, served as cover too.

"How many guns do you have?" Arte asked after a few minutes of thought.

"Two...no, three, why?"

"I've got two..." Arte said thoughtfully then reached behind where he had been laying against the edge of the ridge and felt around on the ground until he found a loose stick. He picked it up and snapped it in two, pleased to hear the sharp cracking sound. "Find some sticks Jim.."

West stared at his partner with deep concern now, certain more than ever that this had been a mistake.

"Come on...dry ones." Arte encouraged before he sat up, feeling around in the dark. Each stick he found he neatly placed on the ground parallel to the last creating several columns of twigs no more than a foot long.

With a grunt James pushed himself to his feet and went to find sticks.

Arte had been shivering the whole way there, even giving up a few half-hearted sneezes. As soon as they arrived and dismounted Arte's knee almost collapsed, yet Gordon insisted he was perfectly fine. Just tired.

Now Jim was finding sticks to bring to a gun fight. It had to be a fever. Jim didn't know how Arte had gotten so wet, but assuming they survived the man's plan, Jim was planning to truss him up and throw him in the back of one of the wagons for the rest of the trip to Utah.

By the time Jim got back to the ridge there were two dozen sticks on the ground, laid out lengthwise in neat columns. He passed Arte who was standing by the horses and was told to lay out the twigs exactly as Gordon had done. By the time he finished Arte was using the rifle as a crutch to limp back to the edge of the ravine with his six shooter drawn in his other hand. When Jim stood staring at him, Arte blurted, "Well arm yourself, man."

Jim rolled his eyes and pulled his pistol and the rifle from the saddle boot.

"Alright, now...when I give the signal cock your guns, and step on those sticks." Arte whispered.

"What!?" Jim whispered back, loudly.

"Just...will you just do what I tell ya, Jim?"

"Arte you've gone off the deep end."

"Excuse me?"

"This plan of yours is insane." Jim enunciated, stepping closer to his partner.

Immediately Jim caught the pained look in his partner's eyes and knew that he'd overstepped.

Arte took a moment before he said, "Do you have a better plan?"

"No." Jim had to admit.

"Do you want these guys following us all the way to Utah?" This time Jim didn't have to respond. "Then step on the sticks...I'll never ask you to do another crazy thing ever again."

Jim didn't believe it for a minute but his chance to respond had come to an end.

From below the conversation had stalled, and one of the men stepped out from underneath the shelf formed by the ridge, his face lit by the glow of the fire. "Somebody out there?"

Arte nodded to Jim then and both men cocked their weapons, Jim stepping on each column of sticks creating a cascade of loud snaps that had the man below diving for cover. Deepening his voice Arte called out, affecting a hillsy drawl, "Alright you fellas, now remember. We don't want it to happen like last time." He turned his head a little to the side and dropped his voice as he said, "Sure was messy, wasn't it, Pete?"

Then he tossed the muzzle of his six-shooter in the air and snapped off a shot, "TAR-nation Wilbur! I know you like blood but ain't no reason to spill it ahead o' schedule."

Pulling back the hammer of the gun again Arte sighed and shouted, "Alright, you boys down below. We seen all them bags and parcels you's carryin', and them fancy Indian suits you like to wear. And we want it all. Ever last stitch. Now, Jimmy you stop gettin' antsy. You fellas hear me down there?"

Not a sound came from below and Arte let out a low, menacing chuckle under the sound of a roll of thunder. "Looks like we scared 'em fellas just a smidgen, boys..."

Throwing his voice to the other side of the ridge Arte affected a different accent, pitching his voice higher, and said, "Sure did, Harlow. Looks like we're gettin' some REAL white meat."

Throwing it again he used a different voice to say, "I like that one fella down there reeeal nice. Looks chunky."

By this time Jim was caught between awe and total conviction of his partner's insanity. He did his job, shifting the rocks and plant life around the edge of the ridge to make it sound like there were multiple bodies there, raining rocks down on the campfire below even as a few drops of true rain began to slap noisily against the stones around them.

Using the first voice, the voice of "Harlow", Arte dropped his volume a bit and said, "Now fellas, we're friendly enough. All we want is your money, your valuables, your clothes and your horses. You can keep everythin' else."

There was a flurry of 'shh' noises as one of the frightened men below started to speak, "What does that leave us?"

Arte considered the question and said, "You'd have your lives..."

From the other side of the ridge Arte's voice said, "Harlow ain't always this friendly. Most days all he leaves ya is your hide."

There were more panicked whispers from below before another one, who sounded suspiciously like Lou of Denver-fame, asked, "How do we know you'll keep your word?"

Arte delivered the same low, malicious laugh and said nothing else. A few minutes later he snapped of two shots from his six-shooter. They could hear the panicked voices of the men and horses below mixing with a fresh clap of thunder. "Ho! My boys is gettin' impatient, fellas. You best start strippin'!"

A second later one of the men below said, "Are ya gonna let us live?"

"I'm gonna let you run.." Arte said. "You run all the way back to where you come from."

"Naked!?"

From across the ridge Arte's voice said, "You all got socks?"

There were general sounds of agreement from below.

"You can keep them."

Ten minutes later four mostly naked backsides could be seen heading down the trail 20 yards away, bright white against the darkening clouds. Arte started to hoot and holler, punctuating the air with gun shots, Jim joining in, until the men were well out of sight.


	8. Chapter 8

As quiet fell over the two men and the mountain trail around them, Arte holstered his gun and used his rifle to get back to his horse. Shaking still, he pulled the blanket back around his shoulders and leaned against his animal closing his eyes, exhausted. Jim followed his partner, holstering his own weapon before he put his hands either side of his black's head, calming the still fidgety animal. "You alright, Arte?" He asked quietly.

Gordon took a breath and sighed through his nose. "Jim, I've never felt so old in my life as I have this past week."

"Old?" Jim considered his partner. "Arte, you're not old."

Straightening Arte opened his eyes and looked to his partner, his brown irises steady as he said, "I am as old as my father was when he died."

Jim didn't know how to respond. He and his partner had never had reason to speak about their families. They talked about their separate pasts frequently but mother, father, sister, brother never seemed to enter into the conversations.

Arte took pity on him a second later and smiled wanly, "I never really knew him, Jim. He was a conman partnered with my mother until she was too pregnant to continue. He left. Promised to come back, but never did. But my mother crafted this wonderful image of him throughout my childhood. She would write letters from him and then read them to me until I could read them myself. In multiple languages. My 'father' was everything I ever wanted him to be, which is a marvelous way to spoil a boy rotten. When I found out the truth..."

He shrugged, his gaze lost somewhere in the past as the rain started to fall in a steady rhythm.

"Let's get down under that shelf, Arte." Jim suggested softly.

Both men mounted and went to the deer trail that led down into the Italian's camp. The shelf would provide enough shelter for West and Gordon's mounts, as well as the animals the Italians had left behind, and the two secret service agents.

Getting off his horse Gordon paled the minute his injured leg touched the ground. Jim helped him to sit by the fire, supporting his partner's back with one of the discarded Italian saddles, and using another to prop up Arte's leg. The process was clearly excruciating for his partner and exhausted him further. By the time Jim finished unsaddling the horses, building up the fire and putting on a pot of coffee, however, Arte was still awake.

"You gonna be able to sleep?" Jim asked over the pop of the fire and the steady rain falling beyond their shelter.

As if he hadn't heard the question, his partner asked, "Have you thought about what you're going to do when we become too old for this job?"

Jim groaned and tossed a stick at the fire, sending sparks angrily like bees into the air. "Arte you're not old..."

"Jim, I'm tired, I'm beat up, I haven't had a solid nights sleep in two months. If this job doesn't kill me it'll turn me full grey before I'm fifty."

"I thought you loved the job."

"Loved...that's a good word for it. Past tense." Arte said jabbing a finger at his partner.

"Arte, where is all this coming from?"

As Gordon paused to think, the coffee pot boiled over, spilling some of its precious nectar into the coals. Jim grabbed for it with a folded cloth that had been sitting by the fire for that very purpose and poured two cups of the hissing liquid, setting one near his partner before he settled back against his saddle.

"Jim..." Arte began hesitantly. "...back in July when I insisted that you come with me on that ship...and then I...watched you die in my arms."

"Arte..."

Artemus put up a hand and said, "I swore then that it would be the last time some crazy scheme of mine risked your life. I've felt like a...a foolish old man ever since then."

"Arte."

"No, Jim. It's the truth. When we sat in that office in Denver, and that skinny kid Malone started talking about the...the Secret Service of the new century, I could see it in his eyes. When he looked at me I KNEW that _I_ wasn't a part of his 'vision for the future'. He looked at me and thought, "outdated"."

"He's a pencil pusher, Arte. He's never been in the field in his life!"

Arte waived Jim off before he picked up the ceramic cup of coffee, blowing at the still steaming liquid, then putting the cup back down again.

"I'm losing my touch, Jim. If I were to try and return to the stage today, I'd be booed into the wings before the end of the first act."

Jim rolled his eyes again, and waited, knowing that interrupting Arte any more would be pointless.

"And I've been thinking about Wainanika. She needs a home. Someone who loves her. Someplace stable, and stationary."

"You're not thinking about adopting her?"

"You don't think we already have? Jim, do you realize what 'mu' is?"

"Mu is me." Jim said, spreading his hands.

Arte smirked, shaking his head. "Winifred had Squirt in her carriage all afternoon. Squirt had all kinds of questions about the baby and Walter, and by the time they camped, she had learned some new English."

"Yeah?"

"Jim, in Ute, Mu means father."

James was silent for a moment, looking stricken, before he exploded, "Well, what gave her that idea?"

"You did!" Arte said, chuckling. "From the first day. How did she come to be riding with you in that saddle back in Saguache?"

"She ran up to my horse as Dark Cloud Woman and her granddaughters were getting ready to leave. I thought she was just another member of the family. Dark Cloud Woman said something to her and Squirt...put her arms up..."

"And you pulled her into the saddle, as you have been doing all this time. In Ute culture, Jim, you claimed her."

Jim's face slowly collapsed into pained realization and he moaned, "Oh no..." After a moment he whined, "Arte, you said yourself we can't keep her."

"I did." Arte nodded. "I did say that."

"Arte, we _can't _keep her!"

"_You_ can't keep her."

"That's not funny, Artemus." Jim said, feeling his heart sink a little.

"I'm not joking." Arte answered, seeming a little more at peace as he said it.

"You can't quit."

"I'm not quitting, I'm retiring. Old men do that, James. They retire, they marry, they get a family."

"Arte-"

"I've been thinking about Lily Fortune..."

"Artemus."

"I'll take Squirt to New Orleans, ask Lily to marry me. We can tour the stages of the world together."

"Ar-"

"Squirt's already shown a special talent for drawing attention to herself, she would love the stage."

"What about me?"

"You're a terrible actor, Jim."

James sat watching his partner day-dream for a few more minutes before he got to his feet and yanked his saddle into his arms.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna go make sure those guys didn't grow spines and turn back around, and when I get back we're going to discuss this." When he didn't get an argument Jim sighed. He re-saddled his horse, feeling the energy draining out of him with every motion. By the time he left the shelf Arte had closed his eyes and begun to snore softly.

* * *

The next morning Arte woke sick, stiff and miserable. His throat felt like he had been swallowing sand all morning, his eyes were burning in their sockets and he could barely breathe. Worse still the constant rocking was making his empty stomach lurch uncomfortably. And he had another pressing problem that the rocking wasn't helping.

He tried opening his eyes and squinted at the bright sunlight that was dimmed only slightly by the arch of canvas overhead. Canvas...he had been expecting a rocky overhang. He lifted his head, moaned at the headache that roared at him, then looked around at the chairs, boxes and bags packed around him. He was lying in one of the wagons, on a mattress laid over top of more boxes.

The wagon tipped violently and he tried to throw his arms out to catch himself. Instead a blanket rose in front of him. By the time he worked his hands free of the heavy quilt he could see that they were tied together with rope. He began to panic just a little, searching the wagon for his partner, or any familiar face at all. His feet were tied too, under the blanket and his knee was tightly cocooned in damp cotton.

He was about to call out his partner's name when he caught sight of Squirt on horseback through the narrow hole in the cinched canvas at the back of the wagon. She was fine, happily riding her own horse, keeping even with the wagon behind his.

And he was tied up, with knots that only one man used. "James!" He roared, before searching around him for the first sharp object he could use to cut his bindings, hindered by the weight of the blanket, the throbbing in his head, and the tight bandage around his knee.

From the driver's seat of the wagon James West brushed the canvas to the side and looked back at his partner, "Afternoon, Arte. How ya feeling?"

Surprised Arte jerked his head up and then to the side until he could see the younger man's face more or less upright. "I'm tied up like a Christmas turkey, how do you think I feel? Will you let me loose?"

"Sure." Jim said, turning away from the hole in the canvas.

Arte settled back waiting for the pace of the oxen to slow, or for Jim to climb into the back with a knife. When neither happened for almost five minutes Arte said, "Sometime today, James."

"Sure, Arte."

With a sigh Arte said, "How about now?"

"No. We've got some things to discuss first."

"James, if this is about our conversation last night..."

"It is."

"I've made up my mind. This...juvenile little game you're playing won't make a difference."

"I tied you up Arte because I knew if I didn't you wouldn't stay in that wagon. If you don't keep off a horse and let your leg rest, it will never heal."

"_Doctor_ West is it now?"

"Actually that advice came from Gerte, you'd do well to listen to her."

"Alright, if I promise to stay in the wagon-"

"For two days..."

"For two-"

"Days, Artemus."

Through his teeth Arte said, "If I promise to stay in the wagon for two days will you untie me?"

"No, you also have to promise to listen to me."

"Alright I promise."

"I mean it, Arte."

"So do I, now will you untie me? There's something I have to take care of."

"Whatever it is, Arte, I can do it for you."

"I _have _to do it _myself_!" Arte barked.

Ten minutes later they had pulled to the side of the trail, allowing the rest of the train to go on ahead. Once the oxen had settled and the brake had been set Jim climbed down and lowered the back gate of the wagon bed. He untied his partner and helped him stand and walk to the side of the trail before leaving him to his own devices. When he finished Jim helped Arte back to the wagon. He weathered a short-lived sneezing fit before guiding Arte back onto the mattress, covering him with the quilt again.

Before he could back out of the wagon bed, Arte said, "If we're going to talk, let's get over with."

Jim eyed his partner for a moment then sat cross-legged in the small amount of space in the bed of the wagon not occupied by the luggage or the mattress. Drawing his knees up, Jim rested his elbows against them and stared at the base of the box in front of him. Arte waited, settling into the warmth of the mattress and admitting, if only to himself, that he was grateful to be laying down instead of sitting a horse.

"Arte...I was thinkin' about it all night. We've both been through a hell of a lot in the past few years and I can understand if you'd want to take a break for a while. I mean, constantly saving the nation from destruction, rescuing damsels in distress, coming up with all those clever disguises...that can take a lot out of a man."

Arte smirked at Jim's facetious tone.

"In fact I don't know of any other agent that could possibly do, all that you do, in one day."

"We make a good team." Arte agreed.

"We make a great team..." Jim said, sincerely. "But...I think you are right. You have been getting slow lately."

"Huh?"

"Well...it did take you almost a week to figure out what was happening aboard that ship."

"A we-"

"That cannibal mess, that should have been wound up in a couple of days. And a competent agent would have never allowed The Wanderer to be torn apart like that."

"Excuse-"

"And that fight outside the capital building..."

Arte stared at Jim in open-mouthed consternation for a few more seconds before he began to smile. "Oh...clever, James. But that's not going to work on me this time."

"What are you talking about, Arte?"

"That whole reverse psychology bit. Very cleverly done."

Outside the wagon the oxen began to get anxious, pulling at the yoke, the wagon wheels groaning against the brake.

"I'm just trying to be honest with ya, Arte. You said you were feeling old, ready to retire. I think you might be right." Jim was starting to give him a self-satisfied smile when the wagon jerked forward. The animals even more antsy than before.

"Oh. Sure and you're all heart, Jimmy."

There was a snap outside the wagon, followed by another, the reins being cracked over the backs of the oxen. The animals started to bawl, the wheels groaning even louder as they started to move.

"And this scenario..." Arte said, pointing a finger over his shoulder, toward the front of the wagon. "The mind games aren't working so we move on to act 2, eh? Wherein Artemus Gordon proves himself by saving the day?"

Jim was frowning, pulling his gun as he got to his feet in the quivering wagon bed.

"You know I take it back, Jim, you're a much better actor than I've given you credit for." Arte said, truly impressed by the look of surprise and concern Jim had on his face.

Even the look of annoyance was impressive as Jim carefully climbed over the mattress, his gun drawn, peering through the canvas. A second later there was a _whop_ sound, like a hammer hitting a ripe watermelon, and Jim's body collapsed back into the wagon bed. Arte was forcing himself upright, reaching for his partner when a deeply tanned face framed by a long ponytail of dark black hair peered into the wagon.

Scars ran down the man's face, more decorating his muscled chest and arms. In one hand the man clutched a war club made out of what looked very much like a human thigh bone.

Arte groaned to himself, sneering at the indelicate smell wafting into the wagon. The whole thing struck him as being entirely too cliché to be real. "I'm retiring, don't ya understand?"

The Indian who was easily wider and probably taller than either Jim or himself didn't respond. "I don't need this charade to feel better about myself. I'm just doing what any sane man of my age would do." Arte whined, before he slapped the side of Jim's leg. He sighed when Jim didn't respond and turned back to the Indian.

Before he could say anything else the native's hand reached out and dragged the Secret Serviceman forward by the front of his shirt. Arte clutched at the greasy hand holding him, wincing until he could get his injured leg underneath him. "You're a fine artist, really. Magnificent. Have you worked in a circus? Very strong hands. But here's the deal. My partner there...the one pretending...very realitistically, to be unconscious, has employed you under false pretenses."

The Indian spat an angry phrase at him, his breath reeking horribly. His whole body was covered in grease and smelled of rotting bear meat. "No, no, it's alright. He's young, but he'll happily pay you, everything he's promised. We can dispense with the show of violence. I feel fine, refreshed, I'm-"

The Indian pressed the bulbous, bony tip of his war club against the side of Arte's mouth, forcing his top lip towards his nose and exposing his teeth. It was then that Gordon noticed what the native's necklace appeared to have been made out of.

"That's a lovely collection you have there, sir." Arte offered, trying to speak around the club. "Did my partner happen to mention exactly _how_ he was planning to pay you?"

Again the Indian spoke, leaning back and with incredible strength, pulling Arte with him, dragging him out onto the wagon seat.

"I think perhaps I should speak to your union representative before one of us gets hurt." Arte said frantically, before he was lifted into the air and dangled over the side of the wagon. Not just over the side of the wagon, but over the precipice only a foot away beside which Jim had decided to park the oxen.

The animals themselves were terrified, either by the smell of death wafting off the man, or by the situation in general. The only thing keeping them from taking off with the wagon was the brake, still set, creating too much friction.

The Indian, still doing his menacing best to scare the life out of Arte, shouted another phrase in his native tongue. Arte recognized at least one word, a very important word, and suddenly understood who the man was, and what he wanted. A breath later, a last-resort plan popped into his head.

Without warning Arte let out a frightened cry and went limp, stopping the Indian mid-sentence. He waited, praying that the Indian was more interested in terrorizing him, than he was in killing him, and felt a familiar rush of satisfaction as the native started to pull him back towards the driver's seat.

Once he judged himself close enough Arte opened his eyes and kicked out with his feet, catching the brake lever and breaking it clean off, releasing the brake pads. The wagon shot forward, knocking the Indian off-balance. Arte was dropped and threw his hands out desperately, seeing, in his mind's eye, his crumpled and broken body lying at the bottom of the mountain ravine.

Instead he felt rough wood smacking against his palms and clamped down, his feet hitting the surface of the trail before they came very close to being dragged under the churning wagon wheel. He yanked his legs up towards his chest and kicked until he caught the small wood and metal step just under the driver's seat. The Indian had already recovered and was reaching over the side for him, grabbing his shirt again and dragging him back up onto the seat.

The foul native man started shouting that word again, over and over while shaking Gordon until his teeth rattled.

Arte winced and locked his jaw, clutching at the steel wrists pulling his collar ever tighter around his throat.

"Wainanika!" The Indian screamed at him, "Wainanika!"

"No." Arte growled, feeling under the Indian's wrists until he located a pressure point that he barely remembered Jim teaching him about a year ago. He dug his thumbs in hard, smirking at the surprised look on the Indian's face, then digging them in even harder until the choke hold on his collar was released.

With the wagon rocking, the oxen bawling as they pulled in a panic, Arte forced the Indian to his feet, then backwards towards the edge of the driver's box.

"You're the one who took her." He shouted at the Indian, knowing he was right. "You're the one that took her and then whipped her feet so she couldn't run away from you." Before the man could respond Arte twisted his thumbs and his hands at the same time, forcing the Indian to his knees where he gave out an agonized cry. "You know, there is really only one good reason for sticking with this job." Arte said, watching as the trail ahead opened, a river valley appearing on both sides of the trail.

A panicked sound came from the Indian as he too noticed the steep drops ahead, and that the oxen, running without direction, had begun to weave from one side of the trail to the other.

"So that I can make sadistic bastards like you pay." Arte released one of the Indian's wrists and drew his fist back, putting everything he had into a solid right hook, remembering everything that Jim had ever taught him about the art of boxing. The satisfying smack bruised his fist and knocked the Indian senseless. His upper body flopped back over the lip of the driver's box, the rest of him sliding out after the oxen jerked the wagon in the opposite direction.

Arte clung desperately to the driver's seat watching as the lifeless body was ejected, rolled a few feet along the trail in the wagon's wake then tipped over the side.

Stunned Artemus sat back in the driver's seat, staring at the reins as they jounced about loosely before he caught up with the situation, and grabbed for the thick leather straps. By the time he managed to bring the animals to a full stop the adrenaline had begun to wain, leaving him breathless, shaking and perplexed. In a daze he stepped down from the driver's seat and limped to the back of the wagon.

To his relief Jim was slowly coming around. Gasping for breath Arte demanded, "Where were you!?"

His eyes not quite focusing yet, Jim asked, "What?"

"A giant Indian just attacked us, the oxen took off, he practically threw me into the canyon..._where_ were you!?"

Jim lifted his head, then snapped his eyes shut grimacing as his head roared and his hands flew to the bump on the back of his skull. "Ah...Arte, what are you talkin' about? What happened?"

Arte threw his hands up, dividing the air in front of him. "Don't worry about it. I took care of it."

"_You_ took care of it?"

Arte nodded, leaning against the side of the wagon and shaking his head, a grin slowly overtaking his face.

"Why are you grinning like that?"

Arte shrugged, still smirking happily.

"Boy, I'm glad you're gonna retire, partner. You need a vacation." Jim grunted, still rubbing the back of his head.

"I don't think I'll retire.." Arte said, with a sigh.

Jim chuckled halfheartedly. "Yeah?"

"You still need me." Arte said, then put his hand out.

Jim grinned and shook his partner's hand. "I guess I do at that, Arte."


	9. Chapter 9

The next seven days were relatively, and blissfully, uneventful.

After the concerns that had prompted Jim and Arte's late night disappearance had been satisfactorily glossed over, the ladies settled back into some semblance of their previous routines.

Katherine and Gerte were kept busy worrying over Arte's cold and the ever improving knee injury. After about a day of their hovering, sick and tired of being the focus of their attention Arte ratted out Jim, bringing his head and back injuries to light. Both men were soon ordered into the wagons. After half a day of bickering the two found a way to use the rest of their recuperation to their benefit.

By the end of two days Jim owed Arte two bottles of champagne, one steak dinner and $63.89.

Because of space limitations and her boundless energy, Squirt wasn't permitted to ride with the two men in the wagon.

In their place the ladies of the train did their best to occupy her.

The only two "pledged brides" who were also sisters, took a special interest in Squirt.

Lillith and Melanie Speece, who called themselves Lilly and Milly, were not only sisters, but twins. While they were not perfectly identical in appearance, it _was_ easier to tell which was which when they were together, verses apart. Both had been school teachers in the east before they had decided they much preferred the adventurous attractions of the west.

They had traveled with cousins as far as Missouri before they learned of the 'mail-order bride' solution, and signed themselves up. Far more learned than they had at first appeared both girls showed a keen interest in linguistics, and had made multiple overtures toward the young Ute girl in the first week of their travels together. They were almost always rebuffed. But as Squirt was forced to spend less time with Jim and Arte while they recovered, she began to venture into the feminine world surrounding her.

The object that clinched the deal was a drawing pad that one of the twins presented. The day she received it Squirt spent the entire lunch period delightedly scrawling on the pad with charcoal from the fire. Milly sat beside her, occasionally drawing objects or letters, waiting to see if Squirt responded to any of the symbols. A few days later they showed her one of the primer readers they had brought from their school in the East.

In it were short stories with simple words, a section on forming the various letters of the alphabet, and at the end, pages upon pages of color illustrations of various objects along with their English name.

After making certain that there wasn't a single piece of charcoal in sight Lilly sat with Squirt on the tail gate of one of the wagons one morning pointing to each of the pictures, waiting for Squirt to recognize an object. She would then prompt the girl to give her the Ute name, writing her best phonetic translation of it in the book, before saying the English name and encouraging Squirt to repeat it.

By the end of the week Squirt had a new vocabulary of about 30 English words, mostly nouns, and Lillith and Melanie a list of 40 phonetically transcribed Ute words. Both women glowed happily with their newest endeavor, but were careful not to overtax Squirt, who by the end of each day spent the whole of her evenings with West and Gordon.

When she wasn't learning English or teaching Ute, Squirt became the special project of each of the other women. Together they devised a schedule that would allow Squirt to spend several hours with each one of them over the remaining days on the trail.

During the conference that decided this, Iola had declared that Squirt's behavior and apparel were atrocious, 'and not at all becoming of a young woman.'

Winifred had defended the child, declaring that she had been an orphan until James West had 'adopted' her and how else would she be expected to act or dress, but in a way that allowed primarily for her survival in a wild country.

While some of the women tried to insist that Squirt be taught the white way of living and no other, Wini, and surprisingly, Joanna, managed to convince them otherwise; that allowing Squirt to choose what she wanted to learn, instead of forcing her to learn, might encourage her eventually to make major changes on her own.

"Otherwise.." Joanna said, clearly speaking from experience. "She won't learn anything at all."

Thus, when Squirt rode one morning with Gerte in her wagon the two, using the list of Ute-English words that Lilly and Milly had compiled, managed to have a discussion about healing. Gerte was surprised at what Squirt knew about the basics, and even had someone else drive her wagon so that she and Squirt could collect various healing plants and herbs.

Katherine spent the following afternoon teaching Squirt some of the English lyrics to the hymn that had saved her life, learning a Ute lullaby that Squirt remembered the melody to, but not the words, and showing the young girl the art of embroidery.

After stabbing herself three or four times with the needle Squirt showed little interest in the needlework but delighted in running her fingertips over the delicate textures in works Katherine had already completed.

* * *

Naomi, a bright girl with a long, swan like neck and small face, who always kept her hair in a tight bun that did nothing to flatter her appearance, was the second youngest of the group, at age 19.

She had grown up in New York City with her mother and older sisters. Her mother, a retired ballet dancer, taught lessons to upper class clients, and Naomi learned the art form with her sisters at their mother's side.

She had hopes of joining a ballet or opera company, her talent natural and graceful, but her unfortunate proportions did nothing to bring her to the attention of the ballet madams.

The arthritis that had ended her mother's dancing career, ended her teaching career as well, forcing Naomi to go to work at the age of 16. As her penmanship and attention to detail were as graceful as her dancing, she quickly attained employment in the home of an elderly man of wealth, who had become ill. During the morning and evening hours, when the gentleman was awake and in good spirits, Naomi would take dictation, escort the gentleman to various business meetings and act as his surrogate in limited situations.

As a result she learned a great deal about business and money-making. The rest of her days were spent keeping the gentleman's house in good order. When the old man passed away a day after Naomi's 19th birthday she found herself suddenly without a home, prospects, or the small amount of decision-making power that she had possessed while working for the rich man.

She had, however, secretly inherited a good deal of money.

Her mother's only help came in the form of strong admonitions that Naomi should forget the past two years and try to find a good husband to marry.

To her mother's surprise, Naomi did just that...by putting her name on the roster as a mail-order bride.

She would never admit to the other women on the train that she had no intention of staying in Utah, or meeting with the man she was supposed to marry, and was content to hide her burgeoning intellect on the dreary trip west.

However the temptation was too great to ignore when it came time to spend a few hours with the willful, bright Ute child.

Naomi spent her four hours teaching the child about numbers, counting and basic arithmetic. With so great a language barrier the process was slow and frustrating for both. For that reason, Naomi was very surprised when Squirt returned to her more than once, with her drawing pad in hand, wanting to learn more.

* * *

Opal and Hazel were the two cooks of the train. While all of the women were comfortable enough around the fire pit, and capable of re-heating meals, kneading biscuits, or making coffee, Opal and Hazel showed particular aptitude and flair.

While Hazel preferred baking, Opal exceeded at cooking. Once they had stressed, and even practiced, the importance of washing one's hands before preparing food, Squirt was permitted to assist.

When Jim, on an excursion, shot three rabbits for the night's meal, Opal was quick to skin and gut the game before preparing it in a stew. By her side through the whole process was Squirt, showing no compunction when it came to preparing the animals, but a little too much exuberance with the knife, wherein she accidentally punctured the stomach of one of the rabbits, ruining the meat.

Joanna, whose primary interest was fashion, also showed an aptitude for horticulture and often provided herbs and spices for the meals. These she grew herself in small pots in the driver's box of the wagon she shared.

As the days continued and Squirt's horizons broadened, the list of notes written into the spaces in the back of Lilly's primer grew exponentially.

* * *

Paula and Rose had distinguished themselves amongst the group as being the only two to bring with them more books, than clothing or other belongings.

Paula, whose father was an anthropologist and Egyptologist, and Rose, who had been a librarian in Chicago, prior to the great conflagration, had carefully packaged and protected several crates of books from Shakespeare to poetry, history to the sciences, religion to languages and so on. Both, having grown up in Chicago, and signing up together for the trip west, had found little use for family furniture, heirlooms, or dowries, and had agreed together to share the space allotted them in the wagons for that which they valued most.

When they had been warned of the dangers of the trip, and further, of what they might expect to find in Utah Territory, they were more insistent than ever in bringing their treasures with them. Bringing enlightenment to the West, as they put it.

Neither had found the time or the inclination to unearth the books from their places tucked away in the wagons until the great effort to educate Squirt further united their group. Together Paula and Rose exposed the boxes one evening, presenting each one to Squirt and allowing her to pick four of the books that she most wanted to see.

At first their reverence for the tomes, and their persnickety nature ended Squirt's curiosity prematurely.

A few days later Winifred encouraged them to try again suggesting that the women narrow down the options a little.

The first book that Squirt borrowed from the "Mail-Order Bride Wagontrain Community Library" brought restrained smiles from Rosa and Paula, and after they approved of Squirt's choice they quietly marched the girl over to where Artemus Gordon was preparing her bedroll for the night.

Assuming at first that Squirt was in trouble, Arte was instead informed that she had made her first selection of a book, and after Arte gestured her over, Squirt was encouraged to display the title.

Arte read the book cover then laughed, throwing his head back. "A girl after my own heart!" He proclaimed, pulling Squirt tightly into a hug.

Her cheeks glowing bright red, Squirt grinned from ear to ear, and said, "Good, A'art'e?"

"Very good, my dear."

That night he read to her the first chapter of _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea. _His oration was dramatic and exuberant, an effort he made knowing that Squirt would only understand a small portion of the language. Arte easily had an audience of most of the camp by the time he finished. Each night that followed he read more of the book to Squirt's, and everyone else's, delight.

* * *

When Sarah, the youngest of the twelve at 18, shared a handful of new games with Squirt, the young girl developed an idea and went to Jim and Arte for help with her plan.

With their urging she took her list of words to Katherine and Joanna along with the tanned pelts of the two rabbits she had helped prepare and managed to convey what she wanted them to do using the materials she had gathered.

Of another evening she worked with Arte to find and design the materials for another aspect of what she hoped to share, spending the following two afternoons constantly hunting down sticks.

With Gerte's help she made paints out of berries, roots and clay, and made her entire crew of cohorts swear to secrecy until her surprise was revealed.

Their final Sunday together they camped near the Duchesne River in Utah Territory. That morning's service was again led by Iola and Wini, however Katherine was invited, then begged,to sing a special song for the group. Her performance received overwhelming praise.

The afternoon meal was lavish, the area around the river rich with native foods and game. With the knowledge that they would be reaching civilization in less than three days their day of rest became a day of celebration.

After the noon meal had been finished and put away Squirt started pulling from the various wagons the equipment that she had been preparing.

With Jim pacing out the field under Squirt's watchful eye Arte set up two 'goals' on either end of a large grassy expanse near the river. Each goal consisted of three sticks bound together at the corners to form a 'U' that was inverted. The sticks were painted with rough symbols and decorated with feathers at each corner.

There were a dozen sticks, some painted with deep blue stripes and symbols, and the others painted with bright red. Each was about 31" long with one end curving in an 'L' shape at a 45 degree angle. The rabbit pelts had each been made into tough, rope filled balls, three and 1/4 inches in diameter with a single seam running down one side of each.

All of the women were encouraged to play but Iola, Wini and Gerte declined. Arte, Jim and Walter agreed to take their places but were told, "Kakawaasethi bak-ern-nahp maw-match" That the game, called Shinny, was a game for women and children. To Squirt's delight Arte immediately curtsied, linked arms with Joanna, and the two pranced around the field tittering.

Once Squirt was able to stop giggling she, through Milly and Lilly, explained the basic rules of the game. The object of Shinny was to use the sticks to get the ball to either team's goal. Each point earned was called a 'game' and the aim was to win as many 'games' as possible before the set time period was ended.

As each game was played Squirt would correct misunderstandings of the rules or display her own clumsy prowess with the stick.

The reason for the name Shinny became quickly apparent. By the end of the first hour set aside for play, only one team had scored, both sides smarting from many wicked but unintentional blows to the shins. It was agreed, however, that both teams still enjoyed the game and another hour was played, finally ending when the losing team managed to score.

The wagon train party spent the next hour to themselves, many of the women hiking their skirts and treating their bruised shins to the cold current of the river.

Arte, still fighting what remained of his cold, took a nap under the breeze blown branches of a line of fir trees. After handing off the guard duties to Walter, Jim found Squirt leaning against Arte's rising and falling chest, staring at the women reclining by the river's edge. As Jim sat down near her, Squirt's tired voice murmured, "Mu.." And she leaned against him, closing her eyes.

When people spoke of Jim West they didn't think of a man of divine fathering skills. They didn't associate a brown-eyed, black-haired six-year-old clinging to his pant leg everywhere he went. No one watched Jim West ride by, straight-backed atop his horse and said, "There goes a fine family man, if ever I've seen one."

Squirt didn't fit into his life. On the contrary, she had uprooted it.

As the little girl settled uninvited into his lap, squirming until she was comfortable before she propped her cheek on his forearm and went to sleep, Jim thought, 'This is exactly how it all began. She grabbed my arm once and it was all over.'

In three or four days it would truly be over.

They hadn't been able to check in with Washington or Colonel Richmond. The men to whom they had to answer would be clamoring for answers; as to their whereabouts, the condition of their property, what their agents had been doing in the middle of nowhere without contact for more than a week and a half.

Jim had no doubt that the explanation he would make Arte come up with would satisfy the curiosity and ire of their superiors. Getting The Wanderer back whole might be a different matter, but that too he could easily forsee ending happily.

But Squirt, Wainanika, the Little Orphan. She was an entirely different matter.

* * *

Three days later the wagon train finally rolled into Salt Lake City. After so many days on the deserted trails, weeks and, or months for the 12 brides, spent seeing nothing and no one, the sprawling population of the growing city was breathtaking. Arriving from the southeast the women could easily see the construction being finished on a looming and gothic style cathedral, the flurry of horse-drawn street cars trundling through the streets on gleaming rails. The newly finished rail road leading into Salt Lake City still boasted tent towns full of Chinese workers, and glaring red lamps lit an entire street of the town devoted to the oldest of all professions.

For Arte the town was a breath of fresh air, an invigorating light brightening the very depths of his soul. He had always been, and would always be a city boy. After the ladies were settled in the flats around the train yard, the designated spot where they had been told to rendezvous with their future husbands, Arte headed into the city, promising to return in a few hours.

The agency handling the girl's affairs had given them until the end of August to report that they had reached their destination. With Arte as their representative, carrying the contracts that each had signed, the brusque and un-neighborly agent mumbled his way through the list of names, checking each one off while he grumbled to his secretary around a thick, pungent cigar.

Knowing the women now, far more intimately than before, Arte found the whole process demeaning. But the girls had assured him that from the start they had been fully informed of what they were doing, the risk it posed, and the complete truth behind the matter.

Each one had openly admitted, the night before, that the reason they had signed up in the first place was because they had found no good prospects in their home towns. Whatever they had once found their failings to be didn't matter as much, each proclaimed, but they had signed a contract and at least some of them were still excited about fulfilling it.

"Their husbands will come to get them over the next two days. Depends on how quick we can contact 'em."

"And in the meantime, how do you propose to house these young ladies?" Arte asked.

"Howze? Mister, they got wagons don't they?"

"You intend keeping them in wagons, at the rail yards for another two days!? Do you know what they've gone through to get here? They should be staying in the best hotel in Salt Lake City on your dime, sir!"

The yellow toothed man stared at Arte, squinting against the cigar smoke before he laughed long and hard.

Arte left, wishing he had clarified the housing situation first, before he presented the contracts to the man.

His second stop was to send messages to Washington and Col. Richmond, who had promised to remain in Denver for another month on other matters.

The message to Washington went through and was answered quickly, the president expressing his profound relief that West and Gordon were alive and well. Even more peculiar was the first response from Denver.

"The Wanderer In Your Possession?"

The telegrapher operating the key handed Arte the message and waited, chewing away at a chaw of tobacco. Arte read the message twice before he reached for a pencil and crafted the reply.

"Wanderer left in pieces in Denver 2 wks ago."

The message was sent and Arte waited under the constant gaze of the telegrapher until he stepped away from the box to look at his reflection in a nearby plaque, wondering what made him so peculiar to see.

By the time he stepped back the key was rattling again.

The reply had the telegrapher choking with barely contained laughter, spitting tobacco juice as he handed the message to Arte. "You shore won it, Mister." The man said, giggling away.

Arte sneered, ripped the message from the man's hand and read, "Wanderer Missing, Italians and Chinese seek retribution, look out!"


	10. Chapter 10

By the time Arte got back to the train station it was nearly dark. The ladies, assuming that they would be finding other sleeping arrangements for the night, or hopefully be in their new homes by morning, had neglected to start a fire or set up camp. As time passed and Artemus didn't return, Jim and Walter had finally encouraged them to head into the depot where they collected around one of the pot belly stoves, looking homeless and forlorn.

More than a few of Salt Lake City's leading citizens had passed by them with looks of disdain, muttering things about homeless saddle tramps and encouraging them to find their way to the red light district where they belonged, away from the good Mormons of the city.

It wasn't until Wini had snapped that if there were so many good Mormons, how could there be such a thriving red light district in the first place, that they were left alone.

When Arte rushed breathless into the station, after finding the wagons deserted, each of the 13 women snapped frightened looks his way, their worst fears apparently coming to fruition.

Arte stood stock still in the doorway of the station, looking over the shocked women and his surprised partner, before he straightened his vest and coat, cleared his throat and relatively calmly gestured for Jim to follow him outside.

"Arte, what the hell is going on?" West whispered once they were far enough from the door to be ignored by the station master standing on the edge of the platform.

Arte handed Jim the telegrams and didn't say a word until Jim had read them.

"For all we know The Wanderer is already here, or coming here , with every enemy we've made in the past two weeks on board. Worse still that cheap clown at the "Brides For A Better Utah" office-"

"What!?"

"That's...what they call themselves." Arte explained. "That porkish bum Solomon told me it might take two days or more to contact their husbands..."

"And of course the Better Brides Bureau-"

"Brides For A Better Utah-"

"Whatever, doesn't plan to provide a place for them to stay in the meantime."

Arte shook his head sighing. "I'm sure there are boarding houses here but that's going to cost them more than they have."

Jim thought for a minute then asked. "You don't happen to have any of those contracts with you anymore?"

"Of course not, he took them...like a bill of sale on goods delivered." Arte paused then asked, "Why?"

"I never did get a good look at the fine print. Maybe there is something useful we could exploit."

"Naomi made copies." Arte said.

"Why didn't you tell me that?"

Together the two Secret Service Agents returned to the building, Arte gathering the girls together to explain the situation in as positive a light as possible, while Jim took Naomi back to the wagons to retrieve the copies.

The news brought mixed reactions from the girls and they formed a quiet committee discussing the situation amongst themselves.

Arte found himself distracted by the black, chalk covered arrival boards hanging above the ticket counters and after a moment walked over to the man standing behind the metal grate.

"Excuse me, suh." Arte said, slipping inexplicably into a deep southern accent. "Would you mind tellin' me if a certain train arrived here in the past two days?"

As the man turned, starting to lift a lip in disgust at the dusty, trail worn traveler before him, Arte slapped something metal down on the counter that resounded profitably. The clerk's attitude changed quickly as he watched Arte's hand.

"A..uh..train sir? The express? Or are you inquiring about the Number 12. She runs through twice daily."

Arte leaned in, drawing his coat back until his right hand perched on his hip, his left hand still covering the object on the counter.

"This train is particular. A 4-0-4, coal burner. A _big_, colorful loco-." Arte said embellishing the line. "Pullin' a hopper, varnish and equine car."

The clerk smiled, before he looked to Arte's left hand expectantly. With a mincing grin Arte pulled his right hand from his pocket, slapping a second, equally as pricey metal object onto the counter.

"That magnificent creation of engineering and craftsmanship, sir." The clerk beamed. "...has been parked on a siding behind our round house for several days."

On the outside Arte was still the unflappable, smooth southern gentleman of breeding and wealth, delighted to hear the news of his favorite train already in town.

On the inside he was re-rethinking the retirement plan.

"Ah thank you..." He said, giving the clerk a knowing wink before he lifted his hands.

To the clerk's crestfallen look he said, "I found those washers outside on the track. You'll see that they get to their rightful owner, won't you? That's a good boy."

As he turned away from the counter he caught Jim peering in the window, waving frantically for him to join him back outside. A trolley had pulled up to the station and was unloading Chinese workers who flocked around Gordon, impeding his exit. By the time he made it out the door Jim impatiently dragged him to the side.

"The Wanderer is here, Jim." Arte said, jumping in before Jim could say anything, giving him a long, mildly terrified look.

"Oh...good." Jim said, his voice rising a few pitches. "Arte, all of these contracts are worded differently. It would take hours to go through them."

"We can't leave the ladies here for hours, and _we_ are walking targets as of two days ago."

"A'art'e?"

Both men turned to look down at Squirt as she came running from around the side of the building, clearly having been without supervision. Covered head to toe in soot she had her drawing pad in one hand and a large lump of coal in the other.

"Squirt...what!?"

"You know, Arte, I remember that dress as being yellow when I bought it." Jim said, irritated.

Kneeling in front of her, taking the piece of coal from her hands, Arte groaned. "Only took her an hour to get it black as-"

Arte froze, his eyes going wide, staring at the piece of coal in his hands. A second later he snapped his gaze up to his partner.

"Jim...how long do you suppose it will take to dye 15 dresses black?"

"I have no ide- now wait a minute, Arte."

As he slowly rose, his eyes dilated with adrenaline, Arte smirked and slapped his partner's shoulder exuberantly.

"By God Jim, it'll work."

"What will work?"

"I noticed it when I was riding through town. Surely they wouldn't turn away _fourteen _of their own."

"Arte..."

"Ha ha! Jim, it's brilliant. We can get the brides safely to the convent-"

"Convent!?"

"As long as we avoid attracting attention to ourselves we can steal back The Wanderer all in one day."

"Arte..."

"We've got to get started or we'll be at it all night." Arte turned away from his partner, then turned back, hefting the black lump in his hand. "Do you think the coal will work?"

Jim opened his mouth, throwing his hands to the side, about to remind Arte that he still hadn't explained anything.

"Oh, never mind." Arte left his partner and Squirt standing on the platform and jogged back into the station. He was about to go to the girls with his plan when he noticed the Chinese workers filing out the back of the room.

After a few seconds of thought he grinned and followed the workers out the door.

By the time he finished describing what he needed and discussing payment in pidgin Cantonese and Chinglish, the conversation had taken them all the way to the workers' camp and it was almost midnight.

Arte still had to explain his plan to the women, and convince them to each give up one of their dresses, Gerte and Katherine would have to spare two. He was leaving the Chinese camp, working up a convincing soliloquy in his head when he noticed the line of women marching towards him, each with a bundle of cloth in their hands. Behind them Jim was driving one of the wagons, the large soup caldron and one of the two 2-gallon coffee pots sitting on the wagon seat beside him. Walter was driving the second wagon, and Gerte the third, with Wini driving their buggy.

Arte beamed at the sight, watched the slow accepting smile grow on his partner's face then went to each of the women in turn, taking them exuberantly into his arms and planting a delighted kiss on their cheeks. Even Gerte obliged him by stepping down from the wagon seat so that he could reach her face.

The following morning the contracted members of the Brides for a Better Utah Wagon Train existed no more, and a weary but determined group of novices faced the morning sun as they boarded their wagons, prepared to arrive at The Sister's of the Holy Cross convent in time for morning mass.

* * *

With the novices was a small family, a man and his pregnant wife, and their Indian servant girl in tow. Weary travelers with no place to stay, on which the young nuns had taken pity.

They made their way through the city, humble open wagons filled with wide-eyed innocent women of God dressed entirely in black with roughly constructed wimples.

The eldest of the nuns was a square-jawed, brown-eyed, broad chested woman with long bony fingers. She was exceedingly vocal, calling out in her exuberant voice for the girls to bless the passersby with a hymn every five minutes. Some of the very same women that had been shunning them the night before, were now casting blessings in their direction as they went about their morning duties.

Sister Agatha Gregory, peering out from behind her glass-less bifocals, kept a wary eye on the streets around them, making certain that there weren't suspicious Italian or Chinese characters following their slow progress through Salt Lake City. Behind her on the driver's seat of the second wagon was Sister Josephine, a woman of perfect comportment, the most fascinating blue-green eyes, and an unfortunately retched disposition.

She had in fact been in a terrible mood all morning prompting Sister Agatha to continuously shout loud encouragements back to her throughout their journey, reminding Josephine that 'this too shall pass' and their trying journey was nearly ended.

Nothing Sister Agatha said seemed to help Josephine's foul mood however. The third wagon, covered with the traditional canvas, belonged to the poor beleaguered family. The wife and mother showed obvious discomfort with her hand over her rounded belly, and the husband drove the wagon with a weary and trail worn second nature.

Many on the streets of Salt Lake City that morning would recall watching this peculiar parade pass by, remembering the look of sanctifying grace on the faces of the nuns, even the most unfortunate of them, and feeling pity for the family that followed in their wake, their covered wagon filled near to bursting with personal effects.

When the wagons finally arrived outside the convent the singing voices of her fellow sisters had attracted the attention of the mother superior and she had already sent an emissary to the gates to welcome them in. The three wagons pulled into the inner court, parking three abreast.

Sister Josephine set the newly repaired brake on her wagon and looked to Sister Agatha who had parked her wagon in the middle.

"Arte I don't like this." She said.

"Sister Josephine," Agatha enunciated, giving Josephine a powerful, meaningful glare. "Let's try not to forget ourselves or all shall be lost."

Josephine sneered in a most unladylike manner and Agatha ignored her, turning to the nuns in each of the wagons.

"Ladies...bring comfort to our sisters with a quiet song and revive yourselves with prayer while I bring our humble needs to the attention of the Mother Superior."

The Indian child in the family's wagon began to giggle and got a similar glare from Sister Agatha before the woman stepped down from the wagon seat, her voluminous habit billowing around her.

As they watched Arte march into the convent, his every mannerism reflecting the character he was portraying, Lilly and Milly stood in the back of their wagon either side of 'Sister Josephine.'

"Do you really think it will work, Mr. West."

Jim turned to look at them, annoyed at the wimple that was effectively blocking his peripheral vision. He'd fought all night with Arte to let him play a priest instead. Somehow he'd lost.

"Arte's pulled off more complicated cons than this. The real problem will be getting out..." With our eternal souls intact, Jim thought.

They were waiting no more than ten minutes before Arte returned, directing Jim and Walter to drive their wagons around to the back where there was a large livery stable. Climbing into the driver's seat of his own wagon, Sister Agatha took up the rear, giving calming admonition in response to the excited chatter coming from the women.

While a handful of the Sister's of the Holy Cross attended to the oxen Arte, Jim and Walter helped the girls down from the wagon and directed them toward a small iron grille gate that would lead to a walled-in garden.

The minute he was inside the shelter of the stone walls Arte whipped off his wimple. Directing the girls to file into the convent via a wooden door down one of the stone paths, Arte counted bodies.

As soon as Jim saw him, sans disguise, he whipped off his own.

"Arte what're you doing? What happened to 'never break character'?"

"I'll explain in a minute, Jim." Arte promised then followed Walter, Winifred and Squirt into the convent. The hall they entered was long and devoid of decoration. Arte's voice echoed as he quietly told Gerte to lead the way to the left. "That will bring you to the commons area. They'll be preparing breakfast for us."

As the girls filed past Jim waited, glaring at his partner, silently demanding an explanation, and a da- a darned good one at that.

From across the way Arte grinned at him, devilishly, but said nothing until the hall was empty.

"You won't remember her, Jim. I knew her long before I met you. But the mother superior at this convent happens to be a very dear friend of mine from long ago."

"Did she recognize you?"

"No, not until I dropped the act anyway. She's a good woman. She'll happily look after the ladies until their husbands come for them, and has even offered temporary beds for Walter's family, and you and I, until we can get out of here."

"And..uh...will _that_ plan require being a nun?" Jim asked.

"I can't see why.." Arte began then shook his head in disapproval as Jim ripped the black skirt and blouse off as quickly as he could.

"I can't stand it when you make me dress up like a woman, Arte! And this time a nun!"

"But black is such a becoming color."

"Oh...shut up."

* * *

After breakfast had been served each of the ladies were led to the rooms they would be sharing during their stay. The convent was relatively small, but had many rooms and canvas cots to offer, and once the brides had been permitted to gather bedding from the wagons, they declared it most satisfactory.

Having worked all night the ladies then quietly made their excuses and went to bed.

Jim and Arte met with the mother superior shortly after the morning meal had been completed.

"James West, this is Mother Mary Angela Gillespie, formerly Eliza Maria Gillespie. Mother Angela, my friend and partner James West."

Jim bowed, smiling to the Mother Superior, who despite the worry and laugh lines around her eyes, and the habit that hid most of her features, was still quite lovely. He sat in the chair to which the Mother Superior gestured, Arte joining him in a similar chair. The three sat in a small but well-appointed office at the northern most corner of the church.

The furniture was arranged such that the stained glass windows coming to a point at the corner of the building, were the focus of the room.

"The work was done in Georgia, and sent here via the first train over the transcontinental railroad. This part of the building was only just recently finished three years ago. As you can see the light is magnificent during the morning and evening." Mother Angela said, smiling at the streams of color filling the room before she finally sat.

"I was explaining to my partner how we met." Arte began, making little effort to hide the mischievous smile.

Mother Angela chuckled. "Perhaps then, I should tell the story so that we avoid any unnecessary embellishments."

"Your very life is an embellishment, my dear lady." Arte said grinning.

"You see, Mr. West I was once very deeply..enamoured with Artemus. I first saw him in a performance in Georgetown."

"Ah," Jim said. "Shakespeare?"

"Hardly. It was a traveling medicine show." The Mother Superior chuckled, her voice a pleasant alto gravel that fit her quiet humor well. "They'd been chased out of every town prior and were desperate to make steamboat fair for a trip to New Orleans."

"We were...hardly desperate." Arte clarified.

"It was 1842, and all I remember is watching a young, curly-haired man with a violin and a magnificently creative mind, convince man, woman and child that the snake oil Dr. Lazarus P. Healall was attempting to sell would rid them of their every ailment. He even created sicknesses for the tincture to cure."

"Diminatol Halitonsilitis..." Arte offered, grinning. "Can still only be cured by _Dr. Healall's Heal All_ to this day."

Jim laughed, then turned to Mother Angela. "You of course weren't fooled."

"Oh, by the medical malpractice, no. But was I taken in by his undeniable charms? Yes...if only I hadn't already been attending school at the Visitation Convent."

"When we first met, she of course did not share this with me." Arte said, squirming a little in his seat as he brushed self-consciously at the hair at the back of his neck.

"Thanks to a relation of mine, Mr. Thomas Ewing, I had gained some notoriety in upper class circles in Ohio and Washington."

"She was usually the devastatingly beautiful presence at charity balls and dinners. Since I happened to be a charity case at the time, we ran into each other."

"At the governor's mansion no less," Mother Angela continued. "Wherein he, presuming me only to be a socialite, took me out on the town for a night that would never again be repeated."

"Or publicized." Arte added.

"We kept in contact, visiting any time he was in Washington until 1853 when he left..." A curious, questioning smirk overcame the Mother Superior's face as she waited.

"On a fascinating sea voyage, James, about which you are familiar."

Surprised, and a little fatigued by the memory, Jim didn't make any comment, but smirked knowingly.

"Then I...went into the ministry, and took my vows. Eventually I was called here. Where we intend, soon, to begin building a women's college, and a hospital."

"That's marvelous!" Arte laughed.

"But for now, you gentlemen have brought new sheep to my flock."

"Unfortunately Mother Angela, these sheep have already been promised to other shepherds." Jim said.

"I disapprove of, but am familiar with, the mail-order bride craze that has been taking over the west in the past few years. In very few cases do the unfortunate ladies make solid marriages out of the arrangements. Don't be surprised gentleman if I do my utmost to discourage these young ladies before they take any fatal vows."

Jim and Arte shared a look before Arte said, "We appreciate all that you're doing for them."

"And the young family, where are they headed?"

"We were seeing them to Ogden, an unfortunate family matter. But we have to...make some arrangements in town first. If you could house them until further notice." Jim said.

"Of course."

In the brief silence that followed Mother Angela Gillespie studied the man that she had known since their youths, remembering a time when his brow wasn't clouded with concerns, his face not quite so pale. Certainly there were fewer wrinkles.

"Whatever unwelcome task you have before you, gentlemen, know that the Sister's of the Holy Cross will go with you in prayer." She said, gingerly and sincerely.

After the two men had left her office and Mother Angela had turned to other, less enjoyable endeavors, she found her mind wandering back what seemed a hundred years. To the glitter of pre-war Washington and a single night on a town that she didn't know existed until a young man with a bright smile knocked her from her ivory tower.

She smiled softly, then returned to her work, only to be interrupted by the frantic steps of one of her flock pattering down the hall before coming to a halt before her door. Before the nun could knock Mother Angela called, "Come in! Yes, Sister Martha, what is it?"

The nun seemed to wilt a little as she curtsied apologetically then admitted, "The young Indian child, Mother Superior she...she's caused something of a disturbance."


	11. Chapter 11

Arte and Jim left the convent three hours after they had arrived. They were tired but there wouldn't be time for sleep.

The two Secret Servicemen were on foot for the day. Jim, Arte and Squirt's horses had been stabled near the train depot. The Tennyson carriage, which had seen too much rough terrain to make it much farther had been sold earlier that morning to the same stableman, their draft animals boarded with the other horses for the time being.

To Jim's chagrin their departure from the convent required that he once more put on a disguise, however the Mother Superior took pity on them and provided them with simple monk's robes. The workers who had built the final wing of the convent and installed the stained glass window had been forced to wear the robes during certain hours, a strange but accepted decree of the pope. When the workers finished, the robes had remained.

Jim and Arte left, looking as penitent as possible with the hoods of the robes pulled up over their heads. They walked the twenty or so blocks to the station keeping to the rear of the large sprawling property and coming up on the roundhouse from behind its brick and slate exterior.

There sat The Wanderer on a siding, the engine cold and still.

"My God..." Arte breathed, his eyes going wide at the state of the vehicle, shaking his head, too shocked for words.

"What did they do to her, Arte?" Jim responded, settling back onto his haunches, unable to take his eyes off the train.

From front to back the locomotive gleamed proudly with all new paint, no doubt the rust resistant variety. Her boiler, wheels and cab looked freshly minted, and the stack _was_ new, a slimmer version rising proudly out of the front of the boiler. The brass bell and whistle shone like diamonds. Behind her the hopper car had also been repainted and detailed and was full to bursting with coal. New brass hand rails had been bolted to the sides, their gold-like sheen reflecting in the sun. The equine car and varnish car were the most spectacular, boasting new windows, more than a dozen coats of varnish and a small observation dome on the top of the varnish car with tiny stained glass windows along the border.

"Aw Jim, she's beautiful."

"Denver did alright." Jim agreed, wondering vaguely how much the repairs had cost and if the men that had stolen the train from the Denver Depot had bothered to pay.

"She looks deserted." Arte said, glancing behind them along the wall of the round house even as Jim shifted a little to check the area ahead.

"That's probably the point, Arte."

"If The Wanderer is the bait, where do you suppose our erstwhile hijackers are laying in wait?"

Jim scanned the low row of houses whose rear gardens abutted the train yard. Most of them were not more than one story, and appeared to be rather poor in construction and materials. For that reason there were no rear windows on the homes, making them an unlikely vantage point.

He and his partner had found a long line of boxcar trucks to hide behind. Between their position next to the round house and The Wanderer there was nothing but track and ballast. On the three rail lines that stretched behind The Wanderer were three switchers, small locomotives used to move cars around the train yard, and an old Mallet engine, a French designed loco that was created specifically for climbing mountains while pulling heavy freight.

No cover, no easy to access hiding spots.

"For that matter where is Orrin?" Arte asked.

"Who?"

"Or- The engineer."

"His name is Orrin?"

Arte stared at his partner in disgust then asked, "What did you think his name was?"

"Orlin."

"Orlin!?"

"Shh! Arte look."

"They're still on board.." Arte grit through his teeth watching as a waist-coated Italian man stepped down from the varnish car and lit a cigar. The thug was clearly armed bearing a shot-gun and a small derringer in a shoulder rigged holster.

"They probably figured we wouldn't shoot up our own train, with it freshly repaired." Arte growled.

Even as they watched a second man stepped down from the train, this one very definitely Oriental, also dressed in a suit. He stood at the other end of the varnish car, casting wary sidelong glances at the Italian, but neither man making any effort to communicate with the other.

"Well, Colonel Richmond was right. We've got both the Yakuza and the Italians to contend with." Jim said, glancing back at his partner to find him squinting at the train.

"He's gotta be tied up somewhere, maybe in the equine car..."

"Colonel Richmond?"

"Orrin.." Arte said irritated. "And the fireman, no doubt."

Jim nodded, "Another good reason not to start shooting up the train."

For a few minutes the men sat watching. The Italian gentleman enjoyed his cigar, puffing merrily into the air while the Oriental gentleman stood with arms crossed looking generally grumpy. When the Italian turned to go back into the varnish car he sent a cocky, self-pleased look the Oriental's way then stepped up onto the platform.

Arte watched as the Oriental gentleman slowly edged his way to the opposite end of the car, double checking that the Italian had actually gone inside before he went back to his end of the varnish car, went up on the platform, then crossed over into the equine car.

"Looks like some sibling rivalry there." Arte suggested.

"Yeah..." Jim agreed before falling silent again.

They were listening to the far off chug of an engine pulling out of the station for a good twenty minutes before Arte said, "Well if we're going to sit around all day why don't we do it in shifts?"

"Did you have an appointment, Artemus?"

"I was thinking about returning to the office of that Brides for a Better Utah."

"Ah..."

"If that Mr. Solomon was able to contact some of the husbands they'll need to know where we've taken the girls."

"You know Arte, I've never liked this mail-order bride thing from the start."

"Well neither have I , but they're grown women, we can't very well ruin what may be their best prospect for the future." Not without knowing more about it, anyway, Arte thought.

As Arte watched, his partner sat back against the side of the building looking to his hands, his lower lip jutting out. Arte waited until West looked up at him, then asked, "What are you thinking, Jim?"

His partner waved a hand at him then took in a breath, "I was just... You and I...we've had our share of women." A gleam entered his partner's eye that had Arte chuckling knowingly. Jim continued, "And, one or two women together, they can be..." Jim started to grin again, "Pretty nice..."

"Yeah..." Arte agreed, thinking that he had an idea where Jim was going with the train of thought.

"But I've never..." Jim paused, his thumb and forefinger coming together as if he were trying to pluck the right words out of the air. "I've never really thought of them as..."

Arte smiled softly, sitting back on a shard of board that was a little more comfortable than the rocky ballast they had been squatting over. "Thought of them as what Jim?"

Jim squinted into the distance then glanced over at Arte. "Like us."

Feeling a little like he was watching a young son mature, Arte nodded in agreement.

"I mean of course they're human, and people, but they practically had their own society while we were on that trail. They had a library, medicine, church, entertainment."

"Almost like they didn't really need us..." Arte said, gesturing generally as he referred to all male kind, "for very much at all?"

"Yeah.." Jim said, still smiling a little.

"You don't seem very disturbed by that."

"I...kinda liked it Arte."

"Gives a person hope for the future, doesn't it?" Arte asked.

Jim waggled his hand in the air, and both chuckled together softly, before looking back to their gleaming home.

"Well, Jim, if you can handle this for a few hours, I'll look in on Mr. Solomon."

"No problem, Arte. Hey, Arte?"

Gordon, already on his feet, preparing to sneak back along the lines of trucks turned on his haunches. "Yeah, Jim.."

"Bring us back somethin' to eat will ya?"

Arte smirked then asked, "What's your pleasure, Italian or Chinese?"

"Funny, Arte. Hilarious."

* * *

As soon as he was hidden by the bulk of the roundhouse building Arte pulled off the robes, sighing at the heavenly breeze that pressed against the sweat soaked clothing he still had on underneath. He crossed the train yards as fast as his healed knee would allow, ducking into the stables where they had left the horses. After saddling his mount he looked through his saddle bags until he found the gray wig that Squirt had stuck there back in Denver and grinned.

Pulling the wig on he smudged his face, hands and clothing with coal soot and dirt, working the muck against the sweat on his face and into the natural creases there. The effect wasn't as good as the makeup he normally used but would do for a temporary disguise. Pulling his shirt out of his waist band and rolling his pant cuffs up to the tops of his boots, he took off his vest, folding it carefully into one the saddle bags. Loosening one of his suspenders he hunched his shoulders then considered himself in the small mirror he kept in his bags at all times, moving his lips and jaws around until the face that greeted him seemed to belong with the rest of his attire.

Arte considered his gun belt for a moment before he took it off, stuffing it and the gun into a saddle bag. He added a few more touches to his ensemble before checking himself in the mirror again. Only one thing was still missing, and Arte recognized it a minute later, then looked around the stables for what he would need.

He found it in the cold belly of a stove in the corner of the stable, and mixed ashes with a few drops of water before touching up his eyebrows and sideburns with the white paste. A very rough job, but the best he could do under the circumstances.

The wig had had enough abuse in the past two weeks of travel that it made him look crazed now, instead of the distinguished priestly look that he had used it for the last time he wore it. Arte grinned maniacally at himself in the mirror then put the glass away in the saddlebags and mounted, passing a baffled and curious stable boy on the way.

While he and Jim had been sitting watching the train he had begun to think about Mother Angela's concerns about what she called a 'mail-order bride craze'. He could almost always smell a good con a mile away and he had known that Angela Gillespie's words had been directed mostly at him.

Before any of the girl's left with their new husbands he wanted to double-check the authenticity of Mr. Solomon and his 'Brides' business.

As he rode through town he kept his animal to a slow walk, hunching his shoulders, working his gums and wishing he had had the makeup with him to black out some of his teeth.

As he pulled up outside the false fronted building he had visited less than 24 hours before, he made a point of creaking out of the saddle as slowly as possible. As he swung his leg over the hind quarters of the animal he planted his elbow in the bow of the saddle and slid to the ground a centimeter at a time, continuing to slide even after his boots hit the ground, as if his aged knees hadn't quite awakened yet to the task of standing. When he finally straightened he pulled the saddle bags from the back of his horse, taking extra care to situate them on his shoulder.

With the constant quiver so common amongst the aged, Arte took tiny steps to the hitching post, carefully wound the reins around the parallel board before tying an arthritis-plagued slip knot. Once he was satisfied he patted the hitching post and took twenty steps to go the distance he would normally cover in two, used the porch railing to lever himself up onto the boardwalk, then shuffled his way into the building.

In the front room he found the same secretary that had been there the night before. She looked just as weary, but forced a smile as the old man creaked in, looking him over from the tip of his wild-haired head, to his hunched back, too-short pants, skinny ankles and holy shoes.

"May I help you sir?" She asked smiling politely.

Arte ignored her, shuffling around the perimeter of the room with one hand against the walls, feeling his way, as if he were not only very blind, but also stone deaf.

After watching him a few minutes the poor girl tried again.

"Sir, could I please help you?" She tried raising her voice a little this time, watching for some acknowledgement.

Arte was about to pass her desk, heading behind it and around a corner toward several wooden towers most likely containing files, when the secretary stood and stepped into his path, putting her hands up to stop him.

Arte paused, squinting at the woman, head to toe, before he nodded to himself, and said, "'Xcuse me fella. Lookin' for Solomon."

"Mr. Solomon?"

"Eh?"

"Mr. Solo-"

"EH?"

"Mr.-!"

"What is it Martha?" The man in question stepped out of his office, his belly preceding him by a good foot. He was once again chewing on a cigar and looked over the old man. "Ahh!" He said happily after a few minutes of disgusted consideration. "A new customer. Welcome sir to the Brides for a Better-"

"I need me a bride.." Arte shouted, cutting the man off, before he looked back to Martha, reaching his hands out to feel at the limp lace hanging from the cuffs of her dress. "Might take several. I got me some money here..." Arte said, slapping at the saddle bags over his shoulder, "And I won't take no fer an answer. Want me some brides, to bring me some chil'ren..." Arte gave a decisive nod to the man before he was once again distracted by the tattered ruffles on Martha's dress. This time he tested the lace at the base of her bodice against his fingertips.

"Uh...and when were you hoping-"

"Heh?"

With a sigh Solomon grunted and shouted, "When were you hoping to plan the glorious day?"

"Glorious..day-oh! You mean the weddin'..." Arte pondered, working his gums while he considered Martha's skirt, reaching out here and there to pull at the cloth, as though he were shopping for dress goods. "Sometime today I spect." He said, planting his fists on his hips and eyeballing the man with one eye bugging and the other half-closed.

Solomon gave a patronizing chuckle, smiling again as he loudly said, "I'm sorry, Mr.."

"Arbuckle. Thaddeus M. Arbuckle. M stands for money. Which I got.." Arte slapped the saddlebags again raising a cloud of dust that he choked on.

"Mr. Arbuckle...perhaps I should clarify just how much money is required to bring the brides all the way from the east."

"I ain't payin' more'n a thousand dollars per bride, Mister." Arte proclaimed, and grinned inwardly when he saw the fleeting look of surprise on the fat man's face. Solomon was a con, no doubt, but he was a bad con.

Recovering with a few puffs on his cigar Solomon made a face at the amount mentioned, glaring at his secretary until she ducked out of the conversation going to a pot belly stove in the corner where a pot of coffee sat. "A thousand dollars would bring you...an acceptable bride, Mr. Arbuckle. But we don't keep them on hand you know. It takes time to select the right woman, to ply her with the promises of her future home and of course the months it takes for her to travel-"

Solomon was trying to guide him towards a set of chairs in the outer room. Standing in the corner under a thick black cloth was a boxy object on a tri-legged stand that Arte figured had to be a camera. None of the ladies had mentioned ever seeing photos of their future husbands. Solomon probably had some other devious business going for him on the side.

"Mister...I'm 74 years old. I spent my whole life workin' day and night inside a mine and now I'm rich. Rich as midas. Ceptin' I ain't got no family to share it all with. I want me some wives, and some chil'ren, 'fore I turn 75."

"Well, happily sir, I know we can bring you beautiful brides in less than a year's time.."

"My birthday's tomorra.." Arte bit, ignoring the hand that Solomon kept extending, gesturing for him to sit.

Solomon finally gave up on the idea of making his guest comfortable and Arte watched as the gears turned slowly, waiting for the proof that he needed to finally come into _Solomon's_ brain.

The fat man bowed slightly and muttered, "Would you excuse me for a moment, please?"

Ignoring Arte's barked, "Heh?" the conman disappeared into his office slamming the door.

Left alone with the old man, Martha turned from where she had been standing, stoking the fire in the stove and timidly asked, "Could I offer you some coffee Mr. Arbuckle."

Forced to stay in character Arte ignored her, but he had already begun to feel sorry for the girl. He was beginning to think that she was unfortunately related to the rotund Mr. Solomon. He couldn't imagine anyone _willingly_ working for the man.

When Solomon returned he glared first at Martha, who quietly retreated back to her desk, before he grinned brightly at Arte.

"Mr. Arbuckle...now-"

Delighting in antagonizing the man Arte asked, "Heh?" forcing the con to start over.

"Mr. Arbuckle I would assume that a man quietly amassing wealth as you claim to have done would be accustomed to being discrete with matters of business."

Arte squinted at the man, thinking for a moment before he said, "Yeah..?"

"And, as a man of business you understand the principles of quid pro quo."

"Heh!?"

"Never mind. As it happens Mr. Arbuckle I may have a few young ladies here in Salt Lake City, here and now, to whom you could be pledged to marry by this very evening."

Arte started to smile, nodding as he made noises of approval. "Young ladies, eh? Here...right here in the city?"

"Right here, sir." Solomon beamed. "But...sadly," And Arte felt his stomach lurch when Solomon went so far as to pout. "Those dear ladies have already been promised to other customers."

"Why'd ya bring it up fer then?" Arte asked, stealing as much of Solomon's thunder as possible.

He grinned when it worked, the fat man struggling to hide his irritation. "Because...these young ladies haven't yet met their husbands and...if there were some way for me to make up for the potential loss of customers...I could present them to you, instead of these other gentlemen."

"You say they're already here, then?"

"A representative of theirs came by just last night to deliver the signed contracts."

"Let me see 'em."

"Sir I would happily bring them out, but only, you understand, if you are a 'paying' customer."

Again Arte narrowed his eyes at the man, petting the bulging saddle bags on his shoulder. He did have money, nowhere near a thousand dollars, but the $350 that had been paid for the Tennyson's buggy had ended up in his saddle bags for safe keeping. Enough to make a showing but probably not enough to convince Solomon to take him to see the brides.

Already the fat man's willingness to break signed contracts was evidence enough for Artemus that the ladies could never have trusted him or his business. The thousand dollar price tag that Arte had offered was a ridiculous and exorbitant sum, even for what amounted basically to white slavery. That Solomon had so quickly pounced on and then trumped the amount, convinced Arte that Solomon's total lack of caution when in the middle of a con would eventually be his undoing.

"What about that one...?" Arte asked, pointing at Martha, who jerked her head up staring at Arte's extended digit.

Solomon blinked in surprise then started to chuckle, "Oh...heavens Mr. Arbuckle, you have developed quite a sense of humor out in those mines. Tell me, did you have a partner?"

And there it was...the final note in the discordant symphony. The final pen stroke to the dastardly opus Solomon was desperately trying to compose.

If Solomon couldn't the get money with trickery, Arte had no doubt he had means by which to get the money through force.

Arte smiled and hit the side of his right arm with the knuckles of his hand. When nothing happened he tried it again, feeling along the inside length of his forearm until he found the button and Jim's sleeve gun finally popped out.

Solomon stuttered in surprise backing towards Martha's desk as Arte pulled off the wig. "I do have a partner, Mr. Solomon..." Arte responded, dropping the old man voice. "And he was good enough to let me borrow his gun for this little excursion."

"A-all my money is in the bank, sir, I never keep more than office expenses here, you can search the whole place..." Solomon stuttered, backing towards Martha's desk as if seeking shelter behind it before he leaned towards the wooden surface.

Arte took two steps toward the desk, watching as Martha shrieked and scrambled away from it before he kicked the corner of the piece, shoving it back against the wall, effectively trapping Solomon's hands in the drawer he was attempting to open.

"Now Miss Martha I hope that your loyalties to Mr. Solomon are not so great as to encourage you to try to defend him?"

Frightened, but clearly only for herself, Martha shook her head, backing into the corner where Arte could easily watch her and the portly man at the same time.

"Excellent. Mr. Solomon I have no interest in your money. You've earned that dishonestly and will lose it just as dishonestly I assure you. What I would like, however, are the contracts for those 12 brides that I brought you yesterday."

Realization dawned on Solomon's face and Arte grinned, nodding. "That's right, Solomon. You thought you recognized that old man didn't you?"

"They're in the office...the contracts, sitting on my desk." Solomon croaked.

"Then you should be able to get them quickly." Arte suggested, waiting for the fat man to work his way out from behind the secretary's desk before he followed him into his office.

Arte hadn't yet been able to gauge just how much of a fighter Solomon was, and the tension was starting to get to him. Already he could feel the brace against his forearm starting to slip, loosened by the sheen of sweat building under the leather straps. How Jim could go for days on end with the thing strapped to him Arte would never know.

With his money safely hidden away, undoubtedly behind the giant watercolor painting hanging behind Solomon's desk, the man seemed content to hand over the contracts, which were probably worthless.

Never the less, Arte wanted to make sure that the girls didn't have a legal battle ahead of them. He didn't know how much the ladies had paid outside of travel expenses, or how much Solomon had collected from their so-called future husbands, but he wanted the wagon train brides to be free and clear from the moment he left the office.

Ordering Solomon to come back into the outer room Arte backed towards the pot belly stove and fed the contracts into it, keeping one eye on the burning paper and the other on Solomon until all of them were nothing more than ash.

"Now Mr. Solomon, I'd like to make something perfectly clear to you. I am an Agent of the United States Secret Service. Not only am I aware of the swindles you've been pulling here in Salt Lake City, I know about the crew of brutes you've been sending after those who don't pay..." An assumption on his part but the look of terror on Solomon's face told him that he had guessed correctly. "If I ever again see your face or hear your name mentioned anywhere in the city of Salt Lake or the state of Utah... If I so much as see your name on a train ticket. I will hunt you down, and you will pay, do you understand me?"

Solomon nodded, his jowls wobbling with the action.

Arte smiled and purred, "Excellent. Miss Martha, might I suggest you find alternate employment."

The girl nodded too, just as wide-eyed.

"Ta!" And Arte backed out the door, jerking the slip knot loose with his left hand and mounting, never once taking his eyes or the aim of the small derringer off the fat man.

He didn't breathe again until he had ridden a block away, pausing long enough to don the wig before he rode as inconspicuously as possible through the streets.

He wanted to stop by the convent, to warn the girls not to try to meet with Solomon or any of the men they had been promised, but he had been gone from the train yards, and his partner, for too long.


	12. Chapter 12

Shortly after Arte left, Jim stole the piece of board that the man had been sitting on and settled in a gap between box car trucks, leaning his back against the roundhouse. After only a few minutes of sitting still he felt his eyes start to close and blinked hard to get them open again.

Jim checked the time; 9:18 am. Hopefully Arte would be back, with food, by 11 am and in the mean time he had to come up with a fool-proof plan. Some way to get The Wanderer back, the Italians and Chinese into custody, and the whole convoluted mess under wraps. Unfortunately, his planning was hijacked ten minutes later when he started to fall asleep again.

He wouldn't be able to wait there, Jim realized. He had to be up and moving around. Staying low he was able to sneak along the line of boxcar trucks to the rear of the round house in time to watch the old man ride out of the distant stable on Arte's horse.

Jim smirked, as always just amazed at the characters Arte pulled off with little preparation, and even fewer materials. Jim checked around the corner to find The Wanderer just as she had been before. Quiet but potentially deadly.

They had to get hungry sometime, Jim thought, deciding that if he could time their attack for when the men left the car for meals it would give he and Arte more of an advantage than just surprise. Unless the interlopers had thought to stock the train with supplies before they left Denver. Jim seriously doubted their forethought on the matter up until 10am rolled around and he could smell tomatoes, basil, bread and olives being cooked.

Ten minutes later the stove in the equine car began to bellow smoke as well and he could smell rice and frying vegetables and fish. With a sneer Jim turned to consider the distance between himself and the stables, thinking now about his saddle bags. He still had some jerky. While it paled in comparison to the fresh Italian and Chinese being cooked in his _own_ home, it might make the loud mumbling in his stomach quiet down for a while.

He was about to leave the roundhouse, prepared to sprint hard across the open yards, through the cattle pens, and into the horse barn when he noticed something else sprinting just as hard, headed straight for The Wanderer.

If she'd still been wearing yellow he would have recognized her right away, but someone had put her in a simple brown dress. She'd also apparently been forced to don shoes and was tripping over the weight of them every few minutes. Just as Jim dove back behind the box car trucks parallel to The Wanderer, Squirt got to the varnish car and paused, clinging to the brass grating of the rear platform breathing hard and looking over her back trail.

She had probably 'escaped' from the convent. Jim didn't know if the nuns would have chased her, or sent the local law after her, but Squirt had to have been running for a reason.

Whispering as loudly as he could Jim hissed Squirt's name. The first time she didn't hear him, the second, she did, and jolted like a scared rabbit before she ducked under the varnish car.

Jim groaned and shifted so that he could see under the train, trying to spot her brown dress somewhere in the deep black shadows beneath the car. At least she was keeping quiet Jim thought seconds before he saw her crawl through the gap between the equine and varnish cars, heading for the engine.

"Squirt!" Jim called a little louder, watching as her fleeting shadow stalled this time, nearly out from under the horse/baggage car.

Jim moved so that his head and shoulders would be visible just above the boxcar trucks and saw the shadow react. He waved his hands for Squirt to stay where she was before he heard the door of the equine car open. He ducked back down behind his cover and shifted back until he could see the two Chinese men stepping out onto the platform.

They had heard something, clearly, and their investigation had interrupted their meal. One of them had a napkin still tucked into his shirt, and the other still carried a white bowl in one hand with his fingers buried in it, shoveling rice into his mouth.

The eater said something to the napkin wearer, jerking his head toward the door of the equine car. The napkin wearer waved his hand for silence as he stepped down onto the ballast, listening just as intently as he was looking.

Jim didn't know if Squirt could see the two, but she had to have heard them. He hoped that English had become familiar enough to her that she would recognize the Chinese as something different, and keep away from it.

The napkin wearer was about to head back to the platform, his eating buddy already with one foot in the door, when something rattled under the car.

The Chinese man's attention was immediately drawn and he went to his hands and knees searching in the shadows. Jim stood, ripping the monk's robe off and checking that his side arm was loaded. He thought about pulling his gun and burying a shot in the ballast in front of the Chinese man. If he could get both the Chinese and the Italians to give chase, they could empty out the train. An excellent plan if Arte had been right there beside him.

Ahead of him the napkin wearer had shouted to his partner the eater, and the second man had finally been forced to put down his bowl, dropping down to the other side of the train and checking under the equine car from there.

Jim drew his gun and silently prayed that Squirt would stay put. Lay flat, don't move, don't make a sound.

Think like what you are Squirt, think like a Ute.

For a tense five minutes Jim watched as the two Chinese men searched up the length of the car, then back down it. They didn't look anywhere near the engine, and didn't venture to the varnish car. The eater finally began to complain from the other side of the train and the napkin wearer muttered his agreement, both heading back for the rear door of the car. Somehow neither of them had spotted West yet.

Squirt, however had, and chose that moment to make her move. Scrambling out from under the car she ran straight for where Jim was standing.

West waved her toward him, his gun up and ready. The minute the first Chinese man stepped away from the car Jim shot a bullet at his feet, kicking up shards of ballast and dust. The man tripped backwards, rolling his ankle on the unstable surface and cracking the back of his head against the stairs of the platform. His buddy, the eater, poked his head out the door at the sound of the gunshot, then ran back inside.

The Chinese weren't the only ones attracted by the gun shot and even as Jim pulled Squirt behind the cover of the boxcar trucks the Italians had been rousted from their dinner and were peering out the windows. Seconds later the glass opened and as Jim pushed Squirt along the line of boxcar trucks towards the rear of the roundhouse the Italians stuck the muzzles of their guns out the window and let loose.

After staring wide-eyed at the ferocity of the Italian's attack the Chinese joined in, lining up on the rear platform of the equine car and firing away.

Bullets kicked up ballast and brick-dust, shattered roundhouse windows high above Jim and Squirt, glanced off the boxcar trucks and went whining into oblivion. One of them found Squirt.

Two feet ahead of him the little girl suddenly squealed then slumped down to her knees, becoming as small as she possibly could. Jim rushed to her, caught sight of the bullet burn across her shoulder blades then popped his head over the rim of the boxcar wheels and took aim at the Chinese, the easier targets, wounding two of them and coming close to taking off the head of a third before he ran out of bullets.

Squirt was trembling and sniffling, blood beading under open slice in the brown dress. She rested on her knees like a turtle, so that Jim could only see a small corner of her face. Jim moved closer to her, his hands busily reloading his gun, the Chinese and Italians doing the same as an odd, shifting silence fell into place. As soon as he was close enough, Squirt painfully rose up and pressed her face against Jim's shoulder, crawling into his arms even as he kept loading.

She wanted to be held but he couldn't do that and fight at the same time. As soon as his gun was loaded again he took her arm powerfully in his hand and pushed her back down behind the wheels.

"Mu?!" She cried and Jim hushed her sharply.

"You stay, Squirt." He hissed then looked around the corner of one of the trucks at the still silent Wanderer.

They were waiting for something. Maybe to see if he was still alive, maybe discussing amongst themselves that The Wanderer wasn't such an effective hideout anymore. Jim knew that the shootout was going to attract the attention of local law fairly quickly. If the Italians and Chinese wanted to keep the odds as they were they'd have to leave their precious shelter behind. Sticking with a train parked in the open with a cold boiler and no engineer was turning out not to be such a smart idea...

Jim glanced down the line at the three switchers. At least two of them had some smoke coming out of the stacks. Someone had been there stoking them, keeping the boilers hot for when they were needed.

As far as Jim was concerned they were needed now. Crawling as low as he could get and forcing Squirt to do the same Jim slowly made his way to the end of the row of boxcar trucks. Each of the wheels was a little less than 3 ft tall and sat on 3 inch rails. They weighed several tons. Too much for Jim to move as he quickly found out, denying him the cover he'd hoped to have getting between the roundhouse and the switchers.

Behind him the Italians and Chinese had begun their own separate war councils. They wouldn't stay glued to The Wanderer for long. Squirt was sitting now with her knees drawn to her chest, sniffling quietly and watching him.

"You need to stay here." Jim said firmly, pointing at the ground.

Squirt immediately shook her head, "No, Mu. Go!" She insisted, pointing at Jim.

Jim sighed and shifted so that he had his feet under him, ready to run. "If you go, you're gonna get hurt again." He said, pointing over Squirt's shoulder. "You stay here, you wait for Arte."

"No, A'art'e. No. Go Mu!"

"No!" Jim said, remembering only at the last moment to keep his voice down. He was scared to death for Squirt. The wound she had received had been minor but it easily could have been fatal, and the terror that had caused in him was slowly boiling to the surface as a wild kind of anger that he was barely keeping in check. "I am _not_ Mu. I am not your father. Do you understand me?"

When Squirt started to turn away Jim reached out and grabbed her arm, carefully jerking her so that she was looking at him again. "Do you understand me?" He asked again, gritting his teeth. The sniffles had turned into real tears, and Squirts warm brown eyes were starting to harden.

It hurt like hell. But if this was the final solution to the Squirt problem, Jim had to go with it. It wasn't responsible or reasonable to keep her. Clearly it wasn't safe, and her being there at all was threatening her life. And she was there, Jim knew, because of him.

"I'm not Mu, Squirt." Jim said again, gently pushing her away. Squirt scrambled to get her feet under her, but stayed squatting low. Anger and pain clouded her face, and Jim did his best to pretend it didn't affect him. Did his best to pretend he was one of Arte's characters, a character that hated children and wanted nothing to do with a little Indian orphan. "Get outta here." Jim said, forcing himself to say it hard.

Squirt threw a rock at him, then turned and ran. The minute she broke cover Jim jumped to his feet his gun ready. The Italians started shooting and Jim ran, returning fire, making certain that he was in front of Squirt until she had disappeared behind the roundhouse out of range.

He watched her weave her way into a jumble of discarded train parts. Big metal boilers, smoke stacks, wheels and whole engine cabs. Plenty of cover.

"Just stay there, Squirt..." Jim begged under his breath before he broke cover again and ran like hell for the switchers.

In seconds he heard the Italians and the Chinese shouting, on foot and in hot pursuit.

Thankfully there were only a handful of shots while Jim ran, none of his enemy apparently comfortable running across the rickety ballast with a loaded and cocked gun in their hands.

He slid to a stumbling halt outside the engine of the first switcher, holstering his gun in one smooth move and jumping up into the cab. A coal dust covered engineer had taken shelter behind the solid wall of gears, gauges and levers at the front of the cab, but scrambled back towards the hopper when Jim appeared, whimpering. "D-don't shoot-!"

"Just stay down!" Jim warned, breathless before he moved to the small window in the front of the cab and fired at the men that were suddenly scrambling for cover. There were only two Chinese still chasing him, and he managed to wound one of the four Italians, knocking the man screaming back into the ballast. One of his buddies collected his gun then dragged the wounded man, despite his protests, behind the front of the silent switcher.

The train Jim occupied was the closest to the roundhouse. The silent switcher the farthest from the roundhouse and was the engine sitting on the same line as The Wanderer. The engineer of the switcher in the middle had also been aroused from his cover by Jim's arrival and he squatted behind the controls, wide-eyed.

The Chinese had gone to ground in the open, finding small amounts of cover behind mounds of ballast.

Jim reloaded the empty chambers on his gun then holstered it, punching the rest of the rounds available to him out of his gun belt. Taking off his jacket he made a small nest out of it and dropped the rounds into the nest loose, creating a mini cache, that from appearance alone wasn't going to last him long.

"Can you get this train moving...either one of you?" Jim asked. When he didn't get a response he flicked a glance at the engineers to find them both shaking in their boots with their hands held high.

Jim groaned and peered around the side wall of the cab at the mounds behind which he had last seen the Chinese. He flicked a bullet their way, and a few seconds later they popped their heads up and peppered the opening in the cab with their response. Jim scrambled backward until he could get his gun out the side window and aimed carefully, bouncing three bullets off the ground to the right of one of the mounds until he heard a pain filled squeal.

When he looked back to check on the engineer he discovered he was alone in the cab. The engineer in the middle switcher had also taken off. Knowing that he had lost track of where the Italians were Jim collected his jacket and stepped down from the first engine, carefully checking the narrow alley between trains before he stepped up into the cab of the middle switcher. As he replaced the missing rounds in his pistol, Jim double checked the cloud of smoke he'd thought he had seen rising above the rear of the hopper of the first switcher.

He had forgotten about the Mallet engine far back on the fourth track, and it appeared that it was not only occupied but building up steam. He got a feeling in his gut, what might have been a good feeling, but tried not to put too much faith in it. With his gun loaded Jim checked both sides of the train he occupied, listening for the Italians moving somewhere on the opposite side of the dead switcher.

While the cabs of the engines provided excellent cover they could also become a death trap, and the more time that passed in paranoid silence, the less Jim liked being stuck aboard the train.

He knew he had made a mistake a second later. He had forgotten about the throwing stars. About the silent weapons of choice that the Chinese had used on him in Denver. Just as he realized his mistake and was turning back to face the first switcher, Jim felt the metal bite into his back, just above his gun belt, and went down, turning to empty his gun into the Chinese man who had silently climbed into the first switcher cab.

The Oriental stiffened, a strained groan coming from his lips before he fell back, dying in the air before his dead body clattered against the stones and rails below.

At least two of the four prongs of the throwing star were buried in his back, one all the way to the center of the star and at an angle, making any movement painful. It felt like someone had buried an anchor just above his kidney and Jim sat back breathing through the familiar onset of shock, sweat breaking out fresh on his forehead, his body hot and cold all at the same time.

That was when he heard the whistle of the Mallet. Short long, then long, long, short. AG. Jim smiled. Artemus Gordon. He looked to the wooden handle and chain dangling above his head, wondering if there was a enough steam for him to answer, gathering his left leg underneath him, his right leg stiffer than before, sluggish to respond.

Taking long breaths, and struggling not to pass out every time oxygen flooded his brain, Jim pushed himself upright, getting to his feet long enough to cling to a support railing near the engineer's controls on the right side of the cab. He grabbed the whistle cord and tugged, getting out the J. One short, and three longs.

He wasn't going to make it through the W, he knew that. His whole back was seizing up in response to the nerves that the throwing star had hit, making just breathing a challenge. Jim dragged the air into his lungs over and over, reaching up for the whistle chord again. Giving it one more try.


	13. Chapter 13

In the Mallet engine, Arte had returned to frantically shoveling coal. He'd managed to build up enough steam to get the whistle going, but had little hope of actually moving the engine within the next thirty minutes. His best first hope had been to contact Jim somehow, someway, and let him know that he was there. The first response he'd gotten, the J, was reassuring, but he needed to hear the second initial. And it wasn't coming.

"Come on, Jim. Come on, one short, two longs."

But for a breathtaking moment there was nothing, then one long blast that didn't pause, or stop until the pressure of the steam began to wane, the sound of the whistle dying with it.

Not what he wanted to hear, but it answered his question.

Arte had the rifle with him, the only gun he had managed to grab from the stable before all the shooting had begun.

He had seen what had to be Squirt running and taking cover in the scrap yard, and had expected to see Jim follow her, but West had run the other way, toward the switchers.

As the numbers had dwindled Arte had gone for the Mallet engine, at the very least thinking he could provide a distraction of sorts, but the steam pressure in the boiler had proved too low to do him any good.

Now the Italians were looking back and forth between the middle switcher and the Mallet, trying to understand what was being communicated, or perhaps just trying to decide which engine posed a greater threat.

Arte grinned when they chose the Mallet and propped his rifle back against the side wall of the cab, shoveling coal with everything in him. He'd stolen an engineer's cap from one of the fleeing rail workers, and still had on his old man wig and get up. He'd already proven his disguise once. He had no doubt it would work twice.

He shoveled, checking the Italians' progress, looking like nothing more than a frightened rail worker. They were practically inside the cab before he slammed the firebox shut and opened the throttle all the way. The result was mildly catastrophic.

The broiling steam that had been building in the boiler was suddenly released full force through the open brake lines. Down the length of the engine jets of deadly hot steam burst open, par-boiling anything in its path. The drive wheels, moved by the parallel metal bars bolted over them, rotated a dozen times, going nowhere fast. The microscopic shards of metal that flew off the wheels, were ground smooth onto the head of the rail by the weight of the engine.

Before the Mallet could pick up any noticeable momentum Arte had closed the throttle again and was turning his gun onto whatever was left of his enemy. Two men lay on either side of the engine, one of them previously wounded. Both had taken the spouts of steam low on their thighs, just above the knees. Their clothing had been melted away and the skin was bright red and mottled.

Both men were in shock, as yet unaware of the painful and debilitating burns, but if they were given the right medical attention the men would live. Arte was certain, however that there had been four Italians. He checked one side of the train, then the other, thinking about the blind spot at the front of the train a little too late.

As he grabbed the handle and stepped down to the ballast one of the two remaining Italian's swung the barrel of his gun around the front of the Mallet and worked the lever.

"Drop it, Old Man." The man ordered, his voice thick with the fury that was turning his face red.

Arte, remembering belatedly that all the Italians were related, dropped the rifle, then lifted his hands, careful not to jostle the release mechanism for the sleeve gun.

"I got him, Tony!" Lou shouted, then swiped quickly at his face, making Arte realize a moment later that the younger man was crying. Arte remembered the thug from Denver, and from the mountains between Denver and Utah. He then recognized Lou's almost-twin Tony as he came around the front of the engine, stopping first to check on the damage done to the cousin laying in front of Lou's feet, before he went up to Arte and started to pat him down.

Arte kept his hands raised, hoping that Tony wouldn't think about his sleeves. He had left his gun belt and sidearm in the saddle bags, and Tony seemed greatly disappointed that Arte didn't wear a shoulder holster. He could hear Tony breathing heavily behind him, and Lou was still wiping at his face.

Gordon was just becoming aware of how volatile the situation was when he felt a fist strike his shoulder. "Look at what you did to my cousin!" Tony screamed at him, and when Arte didn't look fast enough, Tony buried the butt of his rifle in Gordon's back.

The punch to his kidney drove him to his knees and Arte grabbed hold of the railing that was bolted to the Mallet cab to slow his descent. The act turned him a little away from Lou who was still staring wide-eyed at the damage done to his cousin's legs. Arte popped the sleeve gun and pointed it up at the thug, pulling the trigger as the Italian sluggishly tried to bring his rifle to bear.

The bullet hit somewhere on the torso, and the young man stumbled back then went down, staring at his own chest in shock. Arte turned in time to catch the end of Tony's rifle across his cheek, feeling the inside of his mouth fill with blood and his brain burst into a thousand tiny lights. Then the ballast was rushing up to meet him and Arte barely got his left hand out in time to stop himself from going face first into the stones.

Tony stepped up, jerking the small derringer out of Arte's hands, shouting in Italian, dropping oaths on Arte, his family, his mother's family, his father's family. As the oaths became more vehement Arte felt a boot slam into his side, then again, digging into his stomach. He tried to make his arms move, to protect himself, at the same time listening to the Italian roll over him and inexplicably seeing an image of his father float in front of his eyes.

A man he'd never met in his life, but there was the image. Arte choked on the blood coming from the cut inside his cheek, each attempted breath sabotaged by the kicks from the raging thug. His father...looked a lot like him, Arte realized, the image in his mind sharpening, becoming a photograph. Something small fitted into metal, like a locket.

Tony's next kick broke a rib. The pain shocked Artemus back to reality and he cried out, gritting his teeth as he rolled onto his left side, exposing his stomach long enough for Tony to try to get in one more kick. Arte caught the flying boot and held on, pulling backwards until Tony's other foot slipped on the ballast. The Italian went down and Arte reached up to the step of the Mallet, then to the railing, desperately pulling himself upright, his right arm pressed down hard against the raw burning pain in his chest.

"You will hold it right there, sir." A voice called out, coming in on the tail end of a cascade of guns being cocked. Real guns instead of sticks this time. The Italian thug, who had managed to get himself to his knees, was starting to chuckle. Arte could see it in his eyes, Tony wasn't going to fall for that trick a second time. Except that this time it wasn't a trick.

A dozen Salt Lake City deputies stood behind the diminutive Walter Tennyson, all armed and pointing their guns at the Italian.

Finding a way to perch on the step to the engine, Arte spat some of the blood out of his mouth, meeting Tony's eyes. He could see that the Italian hated him. Arte didn't blame him, after what he had done to the Cossentino cousins. But he had no doubt that Tony or one of his cohorts had done something to Jim, and Arte let himself hate the man right back.

"Si può rompere omertà," Tony said to him, dropping the rifle before he started to move his hand toward the shoulder holster under his coat. A holster that Arte saw a second later was empty. "...ma io morire Cossentino."

Before Arte could say anything Tony had turned to face the deputies, pulling his hand from his coat as if he were armed. The deputies each fired one shot and in minutes Tony lay dead.

Walter rushed to Arte's side gently tugging the wig from his head. "Mr. Gordon...I'm so dreadfully sorry. We came as soon as we could.."

"S'alright..." Arte breathed, closing his eyes tight and concentrating on breathing around the constant jab in his side. "Gotta find Jim." He said, opening his eyes and pushing himself up to his feet. Walter immediately tried to jump in and help and Arte had to loudly dissuade him, using the various metal rails along the side of the loco to make it to the front of the engine.

From there he could see a man 50 feet away, in what was left of a blue bolero suit , sitting against the rear of the middle hopper, a slash of wet blackish-purple staining the side and back of his light blue shirt and dark blue pants. The man gave a weak wave, which Arte returned before he noticed what looked like a three-foot chipmunk scrambling out from under a large metal sheet in the scrap yard.

Arte watched Squirt run towards the switchers, her feet still encumbered by tightly tied shoes that she probably didn't know how to untie. She spotted Jim right away but hung back away from him about thirty feet, her hands going in front of her and pressing against her belly. A familiar action that Arte had noticed Squirt would do anytime she was faced with an unfamiliar or emotional situation.

Jim saw the little girl a second later and after he carefully shifted his weight on the small ledge he'd come to rest on, he put out his left arm. Squirt ran to him and he pulled her in tight against him, lowering his lips to the top of her head and closing his eyes.

Arte felt his throat tighten and smiled softly, sitting down on the front edge of the Mallet engine. He watched as Walter and two of the deputies jogged over the tracks to where Jim was, then looked back at the local lawmen that were helping the Italians that were still breathing. Unconsciously he started counting bodies, knowing that some of the Orientals would be up near the switchers. He came up short twice before he realized it, and forced himself back to his feet going to where there was a puddle of blood but no body.

Lou Cossentino's blood had soaked into the ground, but his body was missing.

* * *

Jim and Arte were taken to the convent of the Sisters of the Holy Cross where the future nurses of the hospital they intended to build, treated their wounds.

The nature of the blades on the Oriental throwing star were likely what had saved Jim's life. As they extended only an inch and a half before curving, the blades had missed his vital organs, instead doing damage to the muscles and nerves in the area. Full healing would take some time, but the bleeding was stopped fairly quickly after he arrived at the convent, the threat to his life greatly reduced.

Arte's broken rib, thankfully, hadn't punctured his lungs, but he would be forced to wear a brace for a few weeks. His recovery too would take sometime and it was highly recommended that the two remain stationary, in bed, for at least a few days, if not a full week.

For the first three days neither man made a single squeak of protest. They were not permitted any visitors, not even the Sheriff's detective who came by to speak to them about the bodies they had left in the Salt Lake City morgue. By the fourth morning their regular nurse came in, bringing with her the tray of oatmeal and water that had been their only recommended morning meal for the past three days.

She was shocked to find their beds empty, a note laid over the pillow of the bed once occupied by Mr. Gordon, addressed to the Mother Superior.

* * *

It took Jim and Arte almost an hour that morning to make it out of the convent unnoticed, into a hack and down to the train depot and The Wanderer. In that hour Arte was certain he had re-broken his rib five or six times, Jim just as certain that he had opened his stitches. Neither man remembered the streets being as bumpy. When they finally climbed aboard The Wanderer Arte was grimacing, afraid of what the interior would look like after it had been lived in by the Italians and the Orientals. To his shock the varnish and equine cars were spotless. Further, his and Jim's horses had been returned to their stalls aboard the train, fresh hay, feed and water set out for them.

New, fresh sheets had been placed on the bed that Arte called his own and after mumbling a good night to Jim, Arte was sinking onto the mattress and quickly unconscious.

Jim stayed awake a little longer, taking the time to look through the storage room, the small lab and the equine car making certain there were no more visitors, or stowaways, lurking in the shadows. Once he was satisfied that he and Artemus were alone Jim went through locking all of the doors before he too finally went to bed.

* * *

When the Mother Superior read the note addressed to her she was silent, smiling quietly as her face flushed a deep red. The novice who had brought the note kept her eyes cast down, aware of the effect the words had on her mentor, and working desperately at keeping pure thoughts in her head.

"Now my dear Joanna, have you decided on the name you shall have when you take your vows?"

The young girl, now clothed entirely in black where she had once worn frilly pink, smiled and nodded quietly saying, "Sister Mary Jude."

Mother Angela had only heard some of the fascinating tales that the wagon train full of women had shared. Joanna's desire to join the order had seemed to come out of the blue for most of the women that knew her, but Mother Angela had seen something very familiar in the young woman. The absolute assurance of having found her calling.

She found Joanna's choice of name most appropriate. Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, and of hope.

Mother Angela stood and spoke a short prayer of blessing over her newest novitiate before she said, "May the hope that has blessed you, go with your sisters as they leave us today."


	14. Epilogue

James West and Artemus Gordon remained with The Wanderer in Ogden, Utah for a full week. Due to their injuries they were urged, in point of fact ordered, to remain in one place for a week, and to take leave for two.

Shortly after their 'escape' from the convent they had been visited by Tennyson and his wife who had come only to bid them farewell before they planned to buy train tickets to Ogden.

With Lou Cossentino's body unaccounted for, neither Jim nor Arte were anxious to remain in Salt Lake City too much longer and offered to ferry the couple the thirty miles north to the home of her parents.

The trip was brief and uneventful and allowed Tennyson to explain just how he had come to be on the siding at the Salt Lake City depot at precisely the right time.

"Dear Squirt, she was in such a disgraceful condition. The nuns insisted that she be bathed and properly clothed. Neither Winifred or I were awake to be of assistance, but we were told that the young lady withstood the process up until she was given the shoes. She had never worn such things of course, and could make nothing of the shoe laces.

When the nuns put the shoes on her feet and began to pull them tight Squirt put up such resistance, the ladies cleaning up after her bath thought that she was being tortured in the other room. Before any of them could stop her Squirt had flown out the door and into the garden, climbed the wall via a trellis and was gone.

The nuns reported this to the Mother Superior, who regretted having to bring the situation to our attention, but she had assumed that Squirt was our ward. When she mentioned that Squirt had managed to escape the walls of the garden I was certain it wouldn't take her long a'tall to escape into the city. I had no doubt that she would be off to find you gentlemen, but didn't know precisely where you would be at first.

When an hour later, on my way to the train station, I encountered a phalanx of deputies there in response to a massive disturbance I knew at once that I had found the place. I was left only to find The Wanderer and there, approximately, were you gentlemen."

"You came just in time, Tennyson." James said, raising his glass of wine toward the Englishman.

Arte pressed a hand against the brace still keeping his broken rib in place and sighed, "A few minutes sooner mightn't have hurt anything, but why quibble. To Tennyson."

Together they drank, Winifred taking only water.

As their glasses settled back onto the table Arte looked to her, "Were you able to contact your mother?"

Wini nodded smiling sadly. "She's delighted that I'm coming, and at the same time shocked that I would travel in my condition. I've been forced to promise her that I won't try to return to Denver until after I've had the baby. Unfortunately, Walter was unable to get any time off from Mr. Chaffee's bank."

"Not surprised..." Arte muttered, sending his partner a look.

"I considered the situation and am seeking employment elsewhere in Denver." Walter said, smiling bravely. "I shall spend the next month in Colorado alone, once Wini is settled, then return to Ogden, hopefully, in time to welcome our child into the world and bring our family back home."

"Best of luck to you Walter, though I'm sorry the situation turned out the way it did." Arte said.

Walter and Wini smiled at one another, their hands clasped together.

"Mr. Gordon, Mr. West." Winifred began, "We are not sorry. This voyage we've taken together has been frightening, exhilarating, exhausting and overwhelming. But never before have I witnessed so many acts of human kindness, selflessness and generosity in a group so diverse as ours was. Walter and I find that our lives have been forever changed. We now have...unexpected expectations, for ourselves, for our coming family, for all those we may meet in the future, and we have you gentlemen, in part, to thank."

* * *

During their week in Ogden the Tennyson's visited their train car several times, insisting on bringing the rehabilitating agents hot, homemade meals, and regaling them with stories of Winifred's large family and their joyful reunion.

As each day passed the Mother Superior at Sisters of the Holy Cross convent was good enough to send them cables detailing how and why each of the 12 members of the Mail-Order Bride Wagon Train departed her care.

They heard first of Joanna Lillith's decision to join the order. Arte was so shocked that he had Mother Angela repeat the name twice. When they were told Joanna's choice of title after taking her vows, Jim started to giggle and didn't stop until his stitches started to pull.

Iola Benedict had also requested permission to join the order and, Mother Angela said, very quickly became the director for the new choir the sister's had formed. Their first performance would be in two weeks during morning mass.

Both novitiate were fitting in well with their new family.

The three wagons that the ladies traveled in were co-owned by the 12. Each had put in a share of money, the amount buying them space on the wagon, and providing funds for supplies, extra wagon parts, etc.

As it became obvious that there were likely never going to be any promised husbands in Salt Lake, several of the women had discussed moving ever westward.

Lilly, Milly, Rose and Paula especially had set their sights now on San Francisco and had discussed with the other owners of their respective wagons the merits of selling the vehicles, and whatever of their personal property that they could part with to buy train tickets to the city by the sea.

Using some of the precious little money that she had in her pockets Paula sent a short telegram to a professor of Archeology that knew her father and was doing his research in San Francisco. In as few words as possible she explained who she was, and her situation. The professor, a man only five years older than herself, not only remembered her well but encouraged her to make the trip. He would meet her and any others of her party at the station, gladly ferry them and their belongings, and even suggested a place where they might stay temporarily. A small convent that had recently begun considering starting its own women's college, the Society of the Sacred Heart.

Mother Angela reported that the ladies had sold one of the wagons the very next day, buying train tickets and loading themselves and their few belongings on board the train that afternoon.

"Rose says, Hope Squirt enjoys Verne."

Opal and Hazel had quickly found work for themselves in some of the restaurants within walking distance of the convent and intended to find a home together once they were financially able.

Naomi, Katherine, Gerte and Sarah had quickly sold their wagon as well, splitting the profits evenly amongst themselves.

Gerte had found work swiftly as a nurse in a local hospital, working primarily with children.

Naomi, taking Sarah under her wing, went door to door the next morning to all the wealthiest of households in the city. Dressed in new white blouses and the skirts that they had dyed black, Naomi presented herself and Sarah as sisters having just arrived in the city looking for work, skilled in all house keeping and child care duties as well as in areas of math and business.

Impressed by Naomi's natural grace and intelligence and Sarah's charm and energy, several families offered them jobs. Naomi only accepted employment at the home of the Huntsmans. The last Mother Angela had heard from them Naomi and Sarah spent most of their time teaching and looking after the Huntsman boys. Both were content.

As their week in Ogden drew to a close Arte and Jim were surprised not to have heard about Katherine. Worse still Mother Angela had never sent them one word about Squirt, who had been left in the care of the nurses at the Sister's of the Holy Cross, after the wound on her back had become infected.

The day they were preparing to leave Ogden, having agreed to see Tennyson back to Denver, there was a knock on the door to the varnish car. Arte answered the door, surprised to see Mother Angela on the platform.

She smiled, blushing despite herself at seeing Artemus' immediate grin. "Eliza! Forgive me, Mother Angela...what?"

"Artemus." The Mother Superior greeted still standing on the platform. With a mischievous smile and a chuckle she continued. "This one time I shall forgive you for leaving a nun standing on your stoop, because we frankly don't have time to come in. We noticed your train on the siding and thought we would take a few minutes to say hello." The mischievous smile was quickly turning into a proud grin that a woman of her dignified position had to make some effort to hide.

"We?"

Mother Angela stepped to the side then allowing Katherine to move briefly into the doorway. Delighted to see the smiling woman Arte pulled her into a hug, careful of her still healing wrist.

"I've agreed to escort these young ladies on their trip." Mother Angela explained before Katherine too stepped to the side.

Dressed in the same brown outfit she had worn when Arte last saw her, fists clutched together in front of her, pressing into her stomach, Squirt stepped in front of Gordon, desperately holding back tears until she whispered, "A'art'e." and put her arms up.

Arte carefully went down on one knee and pulled her tightly into a hug. "Aw Squirt..." He sighed, the realization of how much he had missed the child suddenly hitting him.

Quietly Mother Angela said, "Mr. Gordon..." When Arte met her gaze she smiled. "That is no longer her name..."

"She will also no longer call herself Wainanika." Katherine said.

Squirt smiled at him and nodded, before she introduced herself, "Nah-eh-cheech pu-own pu-own."

Arte grinned at her then looked to Katherine for a translation but was surprised to be directed back to Squirt.

"Daughter of many family." Squirt said, her words halting only a little. Despite her self-assurance Squirt waited until Arte grinned before she smiled proudly.

"That's wonderful, my dear." Arte said, taking her cheeks in his hands and kissing her forehead. "You'll have to tell Jim."

"She already has, Arte." Jim said from behind him.

Stepping slightly away from Arte, Squirt pressed her clenched hands back against her belly.

"Mr. West...she also gave you a new name, with your permission?"

Jim carefully took a knee even as Katherine helped Arte painfully back to his feet. Gordon noted to himself that it felt a little as if Squirt were royalty, bestowing upon them titles as reward for bravery.

"Mu paw-wah too-kwadt ka-vah." Squirt said, this time looking up to Katherine.

"Father eagle who rides black horse." Katherine explained grinning.

James smiled softly at the little girl still keeping her distance, and saw the meek smile coming back out. After a few minutes he stuck his hand out and Squirt quietly took it, her small hands shaking his once, powerfully before she giggled and launched into his arms.

Jim hugged her tight knowing it would likely be the last time, but desperate that it not be.

A whistle sounded at the depot and Mother Angela gasped softly. "Good heavens, Katherine, our train. Nah-eh-cheech, come child."

There was a flurry of goodbyes during which Arte managed to track down _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ handing it hastily to Katherine, promises to write and well wishes and then suddenly the three women were gone, rushing across the train yard to where the station master was holding the train and the door of their car.

And like that they were gone.

Both men sat near the windows watching as the train pulled out of the station, watching still after it was long gone.

"I just realized she never mentioned where they were going." Arte said thoughtfully.

"Probably for the best, for now, don't ya think, Arte?"

Gordon shrugged, winced, then looked to his partner. "You know she paid you a great honor? The eagle is very important in their culture, an eagle feather is a gift bestowed only upon the bravest of men."

Jim didn't reply, still watching out the window.

* * *

Five weeks later, while on an assignment in Ohio, Arte received a telegram from Ogden, Utah. As soon as he had read the translation he slapped the desk and shouted in delight before rushing into the equine car to reading the telegram to his partner.

"Wini has given birth! A healthy boy, 9lbs, 10 oz. We've named him George Artemus James Tennyson!"

"Arte that's great! Hey, let me see that." James took the telegram from his partner and read the rest of it. "Wini and I request you consider acting as Godfather's to our child. Please respond when able. Walter."

"Godfathers...! They've put a lot more faith into us than most." Arte said, unable to stop smiling.

"Hey Arte..."

"We'll have to plan another trip to Denver as soon as we've finished this case."

"Uh...Arte.."

"I haven't been this excited since-"

"Arte!" To his partner's sudden concerned look Jim smirked and said, "This says George _James_ Artemus Tennyson."

"What? Oh no, Jim you're reading it backwards."

"Arte, I'm reading it the way _you_ wrote it."

"Then I must have written it backwards, his name is George _Artemus_ James Tennyson. Sounds better that way..."

Jim took in a slow breath as he studied his partner, a patient smile on his face. Arte waited, slowly narrowing his eyes, knowing there was something being planned in his partner's brain.

Seconds later both agents were scrambling for the door of the equine car, practically crawling over one another to be the first to get to the telegraph key.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Again, as always, thank you so much to my faithful reviewers. Without your chapter by chapter encouragement much of this would not have been written. _

_While most of my cast of characters were entirely made up I was delighted to find Eliza Gillespie in the history books. Not only did she serve as Mother Superior at a convent of the Sisters of the Holy Cross during the time period of my story, she was at one time considered a woman of high social standing in Washington circles and was responsible for a great deal of charity work in the 1850s. _

_While I tried to stay as absolutely true to the time period as possible the lack of information available to me about some parts of western Colorado and eastern Utah was discouraging, so once again, I made a lot of it up. _

_But it was all in the name of enjoying more of Jim and Arte. Whom I do not own, sadly. _

_Thank you for reading!_

_Gunney_


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